Solus
by Of Kurtz
Summary: Greed, naiveté, vengeance made them anomalies, brought them together to ally without loyalty or trust. Alone, their antecedents could prove to be their ends. Currently on hiatus.
1. Chapter 1: We are the Hollow Men

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

Author's Note: As I have not had a chance to read the comic book, this fiction is based on the movie verse, and any inconsistencies in characterization I apologize for now. I have, however, read all the source novels, because I have too much free time. This story is rated T for now, but could go up in the future.

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Chapter One: We are the Hollow Men

* * *

Beyond the railing of the deck the sea stretched an unbroken, infinite sheet of glassy, placid obsidian, relinquishing the horizon to a depthless gray mass of oppressive heat mist. The pale coin of the sun peeked through black, bloated clouds that were pregnant with the storm that, hitherto, had only managed to bunch the air with suffocating, leaden humidity, pungent with the acerbic taste of brine. 

She advanced from the hatchway, rested her pale hands on the hot metal of the railing. A few moments exposed and her clothing felt twice the bulk and burden, hugged her thin frame; her hair clung damp and sticky to her temples, the nape of her neck. Regardless, she made no motions to retreat. Below was cool, as always -- the temperature of the Nautilus' bowls controlled by some electrical mechanism she didn't understand and the inferior man had yet to harness -- but the gentle hum of the machine did little to ease the stagnancy of silence. Among her table of jars and phials, with only that and the sharp, mathematic clicking of the standing clock in accompaniment, she had found concentration impossible.

Here, however, there was no reprieve in the form of a gentle breeze, of screeching gulls, of clanging bells and whistles that had accompanied every other voyage in recent memory (before the sword of the sea had put them all to shame). Not even the tender touch of the sun, which, in a black disposition such as this, she could bring herself to endure. Atmosphere airless with bitter heat, water torpid, the ocean was tune to their unrest.

A sudden crack shot. Overhead, thunder clamored on heavy barrel rollers, strobes of lightning flashed just above the cloud cover. A red dot drifted far off, unmoving, shrouded by the fine heat fog.

" 'e's been at it all day." Mina startled, turned. Since the fire his scent had changed, from leather and muted cognac to that of clean bandages, salve, the sweet perfume of cooked flesh, all overlaid with the acidic smell of raw, animal pain. She hadn't recognized it with the dilution of the sea air.

"Mr. Skinner." He was lounging in a deck chair, nestled in the crook just left of the projected doorway. Clad in the familiar black trench coat and nothing else, for once Mina could not rebuke him for lack of dress; he needed no other aids to establish visibility. Revealed through the open front of his coat were bandages that encircled his chest, back and torso, bandages that extended to the arms beneath the jacket's sleeves and emerged from under the cuffs to cover his hands. He looked the part of a mummy whose head and legs had been lopped clean off. The sight might have been amusing, under separate circumstances. "I was of the impression you didn't know how to read."

The book drooped in the wrapped hands, his shoulders shifted slightly as the unseen head presumably glanced up. Skinner replied in a light tone of mock offense, "It'd break my sweet mum's 'art to 'ear you say that."

Obligatory quip exorcised, Mina's smooth brow furrowed. "What are you doing up here?"

"Same as you, I imagine." He closed the book, placed it on the floor with wrapped hands that were clumsy and stiff. "Jekyll's shut 'imself up on account of his rather undesirable roommate, Nemo's too busy pourin' over maps to share a chap 'good day', Sawyer's worked 'imself up into a tizzy, and you've," the tone turned impish, "takin' to lockin' you're room when you're in it. Which wouldn't be a problem . . ."

Skinner raised one hand like a useless piece of driftwood. "Not quite up to lock pickin'," the fingers curled slightly, abated with a clear flinch from the figure, "on account of recent events and all."

Without pause, the same hand redirected to the floor on the other side of his chair, tone instantly rebounding. "Plus, below all you can 'ear is the rats scurryin' about in the walls. Not the most pleasant of music, in my opinion."

"Best you not let Nemo hear you speak of his lady so." Skinner sniggered, raised an amber filled tumbler from the deck. Mina frowned.

"I was not aware Dr Jekyll had given allowance for alcohol, in your condition."

Skinner's hand paused midair, and Mina thought if he had been visible, she would have seen him wink. "Our little secret, then?"

"Perhaps," she crossed the deck with deft swiftness, removed the glass from his brittle grasp before he was in full realization of what was occurring, "you should remember who it was that dragged your lifeless body from M's fortress before you take your care into your own hands." She returned to the railing, and despite rouge's protesting bleats, poured the amber liquor into the sea.

Another crack shot. A jet spray of water yards from the floating red buoy burst into the air.

Mina returned the empty glass to the invisible man, who eyed it mournfully. "You wound a bloke, lovey."

"Return to you room and stay there, before I inform Dr Jekyll of your absence." Her voice softened minutely. "You're in no condition to be up and about."

Skinner stood slowly, woodenly, tucked the book under one arm, grumbling under his breath as he started back toward the hatchway. ". . . treat a mate like a bloody leper . . ." He opened the door and paused, turned to regard her with that strange, empty gaze.

"It'll do no good," he muttered under his breath, words for her sharp ears only. " 'e told me to bugger off, and I saved 'is life." The shoulders of the jacked shrugged. "That's gratitude for you." A moment later and his figure disappeared down the ladder, the door shutting with a metallic clang.

She hadn't seen the youngest member of the League either, at first, though advancement found him at a spot just past her own, hidden behind the wide cylinder that was the crown of the conning tower. He was alone, the target launch loaded but unmanned, his shoulder turned against her at a distancing angle. Whether he had heard her and Skinner's conversation was indeterminable by his hunched stance.

She took a few steps in approach, halted far enough away to reduce the palpable sensation of the blood rushing through his jugular, carotid from a torrent to a distant thrum. The small, irregular beat that suddenly interrupted the rhythm of his heart told her he knew of her presence, though he failed to turn and formally acknowledge it. His focus remained trained on the distant target, the barrel of the gun following its mass as the Nautilus sped on.

He fired, the shot sharp and deafening.

A spout of water, just behind the buoy, jettisoned into the air.

Tom swore, twisted, gun clenched in on white knuckled hand, his mouth a tight, frustrated line. He pitched the gun back against the hollow of his shoulder, took aim on the mirror water once more with eyes that were hooded and unreadable. She waited.

"I'll not coddle you, Agent Sawyer."

Another shot. The buoy remained whole and unmolested.

"No one asked you to."

Silence pervaded the air between them, tension building with the electricity of the mounting storm.

"It's been over two months."

"Yeah, and you know what?" He turned on her, his green eyes blazing. At her unlined, cold countenance the fire dimmed; he seemed to shrink back, to buckle to the stability of the gun in his hands. "He hasn't even been in the ground a week, Mi . . ." His eyes had been away from hers, on the floor at his feet; they flickered up to connect, just as quickly jerked away. "Mrs. Harker." He amended quietly.

A sharp sigh of exasperation escaped her. "You are mourning, it's understandable. However—"

"Yeah, God save the Queen." The bitter note was back. Mina bristled, her tone remained level but clipped.

"As I recall, you were not offered anything in return for your services. You have nothing to gain from our exploits, and are therefore free to leave if it suits you, Agent Sawyer."

At that he flinched, looked at her with eyes that were wounded and she instantly regretted the words, but veracity dictated and she offered no apology.

"It's not that." He muttered finally, rubbing the back of his neck with one tanned hand. He remained in distant silence so long she thought he wouldn't continue; when he did, the words came if being purged. "Quatermain is dead, Skinner's just barely to the point where his bandages can be changed without him screaming like a wildcat, Ishmael and the other crew members haven't even been buried, and Gray . . ." Perhaps sensing the thin ice he tread he trailed off, looking back into the sea.

"It . . . it just doesn't seem right, is all." The conversation capped with his dejected shrug. He turned and sidled past her, the rifle still in his grasp, faded from her peripheral vision and she did not turn to watch him go.

Thunder exploded overhead, the humidity broke with the spectacular climax of the sound, with the suddenness of a rope finally snapping under unbearable strain; raindrops came abruptly and in sheets. She remained, looking out into the water at the abandoned buoy, floating a single crimson bulb against the stretch of liquid iron whose veneer shuddered with manic invasion.

They were broken. Whatever cautious trust acquaintanceship had first brought was obliterated by Mongolia, by M and the revelation of their exploitation, by the personal salt of Dorian's betrayal to augment the dagger wound already in their backs, by the death of Allan Quatermain. Had they been anyone else -- dedicated to a life of servitude in the name of the Queen, honorable men and women, _friends_, even -- perhaps they would have pulled together to mourn, to heal.

They were not. They were criminals, murderers, monsters, thieves, already subject to the ravages of lives of deception, torment, catastrophe and loss, none of which seemd to have adequately braced them for their most recent misscarriage. In light of this new disenchantment, the walls of self-preservation around them loomed high, barbed, well fortified as they licked their discarnate wounds. Hunted or shunned, most of them remained for no reason other than they had nowhere else to turn.

Bureaucracy, then, had swept down with the arrogance only a government could contrive and torn their wounds anew, had summoned them_ -- _regardless of the fact that their so called _League_ had never actually existed -- to port for an urgent audience. Unfortunately, there were too many of them with something to gain that only the Crown could offer. They were bleeding raw again, in the memories of tribulation.

And Tom Sawyer's so called extraordinary talent of unfailing optimism had apparently deserted him. They all knew, in their line of work, it would happen eventually; Mina just didn't think it would be as tragic to witness as it was.

It was sometimes easy to forget how young the agent was.

She wished she had the strength to offer him something other than hard words and harsh realities. But she lay maimed as well, and was too self-serving to allow her own grief to lay open, exposed to the harsh light of day and let to bleed its poison. That, perhaps, had been her first mistake.

_Jonathan . . ._

And on the coattails, "Dorian."

Sometime during her musing she had found the edge of the dock, had taken the wet railing in her hands. Looking down, she found the fingers contracted, knuckles seared white around the metal in a flesh garrote; she released the baking metal abruptly with something like embarrassment. Inward slopes marked where ghost fingers still clenched.

A heavy sigh escaped her. _When did things manage to get so complicated?_

Behind her, a small flapping noise, and the rain landed short of her figure with a soft pattering. She frowned quizzically, looked over her shoulder.

Behind her stood Henry Jekyll, smiling faintly, holding an umbrella over her with one hand. The other fiddled with the pocket watch. Newly exposed, dark spots began to color his duster; his auburn hair began to brown with water.

He looked terrible.

Hyde had not been seen again since the day in M's fortress, and containing the beast was not so much wearing on the doctor as it was obviously killing him. His face was gaunt, wan, eyes lusterless and sunken, red-rimmed with apparent lack of sleep. Already thin, his weight had diminished further – his clothing, neatly pressed and well tailored as always, hung loosely from a wasted, skeletal frame. It was the first time she had seen him in some time; he emerged only from the locked confines of his quarters to tend to his invisible patient.

Thunder detonated a cannon blast. The skittish man jumped nearly from his skin. He offered a shy, nervous smile upon recovering, shouted over the sound: "You'll catch your death out here, Mrs. Harker!"

A rueful smile touched the corner of her mouth. "I've not had that worry in some time, Doctor."

He flushed, stammered something inaudible; in the next breath he jerked sharply, eyes flashing from hers and turning inwards, his face pulled in something like despair. She reached out to him and he just as quickly straightened, withdrew, forced a look of composure that failed utterly.

"Nemo sends word that we are about to submerge." He stated finally, and offered his arm. Much to her own surprise, Mina took it, hooking her arm through his with a gentlewoman's tact. His figure was ungainly and stiff, hers remote, and the hold was awkward and disconnected.

It was with this tacit detachment the two returned to the courtroom silence of the Nautilus' womb.

* * *

The next chapter should be out sometime within the week, hopefully. Reviews, comments and criticism are always greatly appreciated. 


	2. Chapter 2: Veritable Transitory Power

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

Author's Note: My apologies for the late update. The good thing is, I actually wrote the next chapter before this one (if you can figure that), so it should be following very shortly.

Thank you, everyone, for the wonderful reviews! To be mawkishly sentimental, they are the coal that keeps my literary engine burning.

Also, since I haven't read the comics, I am almost completely winging Campion Bond, guided only by fellow fic descriptions and a terribly brief wikipedia entry. Any inconsistencies (which there are likely to be numerous) I apologize for.

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Chapter Two: The One Veritable Transitory Power

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"Once again, I offer my _deepest_ condolences for your loss." 

The desk before them was clear, save a few positioned documents in casually constructed muss, a clear fabrication of activity. The white of the paper was startling against the dark office; the desk's cherry wood, gleaming finish, the bookcases packed with leatherback volumes of various hues on the lower end of the color spectrum -- maroon, sable, coffee-- a film of dust displaying their popularity. An atlas was framed on the far wall as a centerpiece to the room, crossed with what looked to be representations of telegraph wires, littered with red pins representing questionable ends. Before the poster, seated behind the desk in a studded leather armchair, was Campion Bond.

They had met the rather rotund man once before, briefly, upon the return of the scientists to their countrymen. Campion Bond had offered an obligatory, metaphorical handshake on behalf of the Queen in regards to their labors administered and nothing else. Mina had thought little of it at the time; she had not expected to encounter the arrogant, foppish little man again.

A cigar was pinched between his thin lips, a tumbler of scotch in one plump hand, the other stroking his pencil thin mustache in a thoroughly vexing manner. It was not the accessories that drew her irritation; on the contrary, drink and tobacco were not an uncommon sight, mirrored by many in the private settings of homes or community pubs, though this were quite beyond such a leisure manner. On the Nautilus, in fact, before tragedy and deceit had fractured their already unsteady alliance, one could often find various men of the league in the drawing room with cigars or cigarettes, glasses of whisky or brandy, engaged in illegal games of poker. And something about the scene, even with their band of rouges and demons, brought a sort of sophistication; meditation in the smooth faces, amber spirits catching the low light, blue smoke hazing the air, black and red dog-eared broads fanned and silent.

Not so with Bond. His fat cigar, the end frayed from being bitten rather than cut, served only to bring the yellow of his countenance to the forefront. His oiled black hair -- combed and trim -- shined in the lamplight, soft folds of his jowls sagging over the too-starched collar, cravat loosened in what was a presumable expression of casualness. Brass buttons pulled at the stitching of his navy vest, party to an exorbitant suit. It was almost uncanny how the room about seemed to mirror in inanimate tokens what she, at first glance, had taken the man to be: Bond was an avatar, a tangible expression of bureaucratic absurdity.

Wilhelmina Harker did not have great respect for Campion Bond, and did not like him. Barring some catastrophic demonstration of valor, she doubted the opinion would change in the near future.

Bond sipped from the glass, swirled the liquid, gazed into it and pursed his lips.

"He will be greatly missed." The comment was almost offhand, and Bond cast a sympathetic, pointed glance to Mina. Her face turned slightly in confusion, but she gave a slight, if puzzled nod in acknowledgment.

On her right, Sawyer shifted in his own leather seat, crossed his arms, expression sour. He -- slumped in his worn American dress, pistols slung low on his hips, expression unabashedly bored – contrasted sharply to the man on her left; the captain was clad, as always, in his ornamental Prussian blue jacket and turban, jeweled hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

It was only the three of them present. Skinner was on the Nautilus, hopefully resting. A mild sedative, as well as a dose of morphine, had been administered to the invisible man before they left. Usually an oral medication could manage his discomfort, but the abrupt change from the sweltering African heat to a the wet northern atmosphere had proved to exacerbate his condition, and when she had asked him if he were in very much pain he hadn't even bothered with a quip, just nodded.

("_I will stay and watch Skinner." Jekyll offered a thin smile, stuttering in the uneven gait of someone speaking over another, "Someone to remind him that cavorting about the deck on holiday is not in his injuries' best interest."_

_Beneath her unwavering, dissatisfied scrutiny he looked down, began plucking at the string of his pocket watch with fretful fingers. "I can't trust Hyde in London, Mrs. Harker." He swallowed hard, "Even without the serum . . ." His fists clenched suddenly, his teeth ground, and he twisted as if someone were behind him, "A moment of peace, Edward, damn you--!"_

_He looked back with tired eyes. "I just . . . I just can't.")_

Sawyer shifted once more, the leather creaking beneath him. Mina gave him a look from behind her veiled Juliet cap, one he didn't catch; she touched a gloved hand to his knee to still him. Nemo's hand curled, flexed around the pommel of his sword. Bond caught all motions, regarded them with piqued moue.

"Have you heard," he took another sip of the drink, spoke slowly, "of the Boxers?"

"Rebels." Mina supplied, refusing to entertain his indolent palaver. "They oppose the imperial rule and Western influences in the Empire of China."

"Yes." Champion regarded her with surprise, as well as a sort of upset at being bested by a woman. "There have been reports spewing from the country of attacks against foreign missionaries and Chinese Christians. Their credibility is questionable at best, with the sensationalism of the news today. . . However, official word has arrived that Belgian diplomats have come under attack, and the Boxers are occupying Tientsin."

Another silence as Bond refilled his crystal tumbler with its matching ewer.

"And you called us here to . . ?" Sawyer prompted in his brash American accent, tossing his blonde bangs from his eyes.

"Eight countries -- Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, the United States, as well as the Kingdom -- have been in talks to ally and suppress the threat before it can ignite the region. We have already begun to build our presence on the northern coast, with more troops ready to be dispatched immediately at the first sign of serious conflict. We hope to have the uprising quelled by the first of July, but they certainly aren't making it easy for us. Railroads have been destroyed, and land communication between England and her troops has been all but impossible."

"We'll not fight your wars for you, Mr. Bond." Bond raised an adjourning hand, continued.

"Please, Captain. One of our ships, _The Palestine_, was deployed at the middle of January, when this troublesome business first began. She is a civilian boat, a coal bark and member of the merchant navy, one that makes frequent trips between England and Bangkok. At the time, we had no knowledge whether the situation would further deteriorate. The military procured the vessel and her crew to transport certain cargo to the mainland -- where it could be distributed to the coastal colonies already occupied, as well as the Imperial police force -- without an international scandal or revealing cause to worsen relations between East and West." He added with a sort of confidential aggravation, "We were hoping to get this under control before it turned into something like this . . . _Boer_ . . . nonsense."

"They were rifles, then?"

"Yes. Lee-Enfield and Martini-Enfield rifles, as well as various revolvers. Over twelve thousand pieces in total, with accompanying surplus magazines."

Tom let out a low whistle. A simpering smile crossed Bond's features and he nodded, appeased, sobered into a grim manner in the same breath.

"Unfortunately, _The Palestine_ never reported to port. Hurricane activity in the region was non-existent, so it is unlikely the ship met with any sort of natural mishap on the way."

"What is more likely is the rebels somehow got hold of the ship and have helped themselves."

"We can't be sure," Bond dismissed flippantly. "The bark was last sighted outside of the Dutch East Indies. But more importantly . . ." He set down his drink, his cigar, for the first time, steepled his thick fingers and tapped them against his flabby chin. Mina noticed with some wonder that the nails were better manicured than her own.

"Entrusted with the captain of the vessel (one of the most highly esteemed members of her Majesty's navy) was a letter, detailing plans too sensitive to trust with a land messenger or wire correspondence. Plans to be communicated to Vice Admiral Edward Seymour, on actions to be taken to secure Beijing if other means were to go awry."

"You are suggesting a hunting expedition?" Nemo sounded amused, black light glinting in his dark eyes. "That we should drag the depths of the China seas to recover a letter that salt water has likely dissolved to paste? Or perhaps scour the continent for a document these so-called rebels may or may not posses?"

Bond's features darkened as he glowered across the room at the other man, simultaneously opened the drawer of his desk, and produced a folded letter held closed by the Queen's official seal. "These are the new orders, revised, incase the predecessor did fall into enemy possession." He held it in his neat little hands, tipped so the gold seal caught the light. His tone fell to an intimate octave, voice solemn.

"I cannot stress the importance of this letter reaching the appropriate authorities. No ship is faster than yours, Nemo." One hand released the letter, balled into a furious fist that trembled with excitement. "Delivery of this document could mean the difference between the Queen's continued rule and a future under the horrors of the Yellow Terror!" With the last words, Bond thrust the meaty fist into the air with gusto.

The addressed were nonplussed.

"The Nautilus is not a _messenger service_." The captain was not an expressive man, but the glint in his eyes had turned razor sharp, his voice glacial.

Bond flushed, sputtered, retracted his hand. "This is hardly messenger service, Captain--"

"What is your government offering, Mr. Bond?" Mina cut in. "I imagine that since our previous employer was not an actual agent, our promised recompenses were not endorsed by the proper authorities--"

"--Leaving my agency deliriously free of all obligation to you and your motley troupe?" Bond allowed for a bemused grin. "You are a credit to your sex, Mrs. Harker. But my superiors have been gracious enough to consider your record in service of the crown, and have come to what we believe is a proper compromise."

He paused dramatically.

"Five years."

Tom blinked, raised an eyebrow, spoke for the rest of them. "What?"

"Five years of continued servitude to the Queen. If, in turn, we find ourselves satisfied, Nemo and Jekyll will both be granted their pardons. We have already contacted Agent Sawyer's superiors and, barring some catastrophic event of war or thereabouts, the extension has been approved as far as the immediate future."

"And Skinner's cure?" Tom cut in. At the Bond paused, pursed his lips.

"Unfortunately, the cure Moriarty promised is not in existence. As we speak, however, top scientists are studying the remains of Sanderson Reed and are working on an antidote. Five years should be more than enough time to acquire the desired results."

None spoke in response; each regarded the portly man with vapid impassivity before turning slightly to each other, as if to converse. A confidential, unspoken word passed from each countenance, from Nemo's lined, expressionless brow to Sawyer's slightly down turned mouth. Mina took in both, offered a demure shift of her own eyes.

"It's a very fair offer." Bond harrumphed, apparently perturbed that his proposition had not been seized the minute offered. He extended the letter into the open air; it hung intermediate to the surface of the desk, dithering, as if the benefactor was unsure who to direct the proposition.

It remained in limbo for nearly a minute before Bond amended hesitantly, began to withdraw his hand, "If you should require discourse with your other members, I must insist--"

Sawyer's frown deepened, and he snatched the letter from the air, offered it to Mina. She took it, glanced it over, handed it to the captain, who tucked it with indifference into his lapel.

Bond beamed. "Excellent. Welcome to the service of Her Majesty the Queen, gentlemen."

* * *

Sorry for the long wait. Nemo, who was so neglected in the last chapter, has finally made an appearance. (And, to be honest, of all the source books I've so far read -- which is all the original members of the League-- his is by far my favorite, followed closely by the chronicles of Allan Quatermain.) 

Also, not all chapters are going to be from Mina's POV. Tom is next, in fact.

All my knowledge of the Boxer Rebellion is from the two days covered in my AP American History class and what I could find on the internet. Please forgive any glaring discrepancies in events or any liberties with the historical timeline I have taken. The conspiracy with the Enfield rifles and _The Palestine_ is a complete fabrication. Also, I mean _absolutely_ no offense by the "Yellow Terror" bit, but, unfortunately, racial tolerance had yet to make a great deal of headway.

Reviews and criticisms are always gratefully received.


	3. Chapter 3: In Death’s Dream Kingdom

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

Authors Note: Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful reviews! Wow . . I'm very late. My apologies. This chapter is longer, however, so maybe that will make up for my tardiness.

Warning: Flashbacks ahead. I've tried to do them as smoothly as possible, so hopefully they aren't too confusing. Also, some direct references to _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_, so if you haven't read I hope I'm clear, and if you have, then I hope I haven't cheated too badly. (Insert sheepish grin)

* * *

Chapter Three: In Death's Dream Kingdom

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Tom Sawyer set _One Thousand and One Nights_ down open on his chest, finally folding. He'd read the same paragraph four or five times with superficial concentration, eyes trailing over the script without absorbing any of the contents. With a sigh of frustration, he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and glanced to the world outside the porthole. 

While submerged, the open panels of the Nautilus revealed only the midnight blue of the ocean depths, flecked with the iridescent silver of fish drawn to the ship's phosphorescent glow. The persistent monotony of the landscape created an almost hysterical impression of claustrophobia -- he appreciated the giant canoe and it certainly served all the creature comforts one could ask, but Sawyer had never been one to regret the feeling of solid dirt under his feet.

The clock had long since been displaced, and in retrospect, he wasn't sure whether its ticking or the disorientation from never knowing the time was worse. The only anchor to reality, otherwise, came every twenty-four hours, when the Nautilus rose from submersion and expelled her stale air to ventilate anew. While the oxygen tanks filled, Tom could enjoy the vision of the sun's yellow disc peering from across the glassy green water. Maybe it was because he was country boy at heart, but he would always prefer the sun to an electric light.

Activities between episodes were aimless and restless; he disassembled his colt pistols, cleaned and polished them with nimble, practiced dexterity, reassembled them just to repeat the task. Sometimes he visited Skinner, though the conversation was strained and awkward, due to the nature of the invisible man's injuries – something that should have strengthened the novice friendship but didn't, just made Tom's already morose frame of mind even blacker with guilt and shame. Skinner tried easing him with jokes and assurances, but it was apparent that -- while affable in the charming excess of theatric roguishness -- the gentleman thief had no great experience with amity and he, too, fumbled with the strangeness of rapport.

So, mostly, Tom read. He'd already gone through _Don Quixote_ and _Gulliver's Travels_, as well as a number of other favorites from his childhood, books he'd read enough times to memorize the prose. They, at least, remained static, and the concrete familiarity of their contents, the accustomed weight in his hands, comforted him. They were almost an anodyne, in the face of . . .

He thrust the thought away, turned his eyes from the window only to have his gaze fall unluckily on his bedside stand.

_King Solomon's Mines. Allan Quatermain. Allan's Wife and Other Tales._ Books, that, in his youth, he had devoured in the same fevor as a dying man who's found water, their pages long since stained and dog-eared with wear. He had lined them there when he first arrived on the Nautilus, thinking . . .

_What?_ A small voice sneered. _That he would be flattered by your infantile obsession? That he would sit you down on his knee and spin yarns of Africa, patting your head and calling you son? That—_

Tom lashed out, knocked the novels askew. They clattered to the floor with a discordant meter of hollow thuds.

It was a minute before he rose slowly from the bed and collected them with the greatest of care, muttering inane apologies. He returned to his seat, studied the faded gold lettering, absently thumbing the peeling leather.

It hadn't been clean, like all the books had said it would be. The heroes had prevailed, true to form, but the cost was written in the blackened walls with the blood of the lionhearted.

_(Despite the preservative qualities of the cold Quatermain wasn't in death as he had been in life, something else the books had promised: the dead were to look elegant, peaceful, as if the deceased had merely slipped into sleep._

_Spirited away by eddies of eternity was the hunter's presence of greatness, of strength. In its wake, what remained of Allan Quatermain looked old, small and shriveled, his countenance deeply creased -- far more so than before, it seemed -- sallow against the white beard. His expression was not that of a peaceable rest but vapid, slack with the emptiness of death. Blood caked the back of his shirt, had dried to a mottled brown tack._

_  
Nemo knelt next to Quatermain, touched two fingers to his limp wrist, then his neck. It was unnecessary, Tom had done the same before leaving the place . . . but somehow there was a fierce, crushing finality when the captain's dark fingers rose, and gently pulled the great white hunter's vacant eyes closed._

"He is gone."

_  
They used a tapestry from the hall to cover him. Tom couldn't bring himself to look at the dead man, at his companions as they carried his body back to the atrium. _

_  
There was no romance in it. None at all.)_

Even after everything with Huck, in the white solstice light of the aftermath stood revealed the last fragments of naiveté he had clung to in a child's desperation, some further innocence he had yet to lose. He had shed them in biting cold of his first eastern winter like infected snake skins, and the Tom Sawyer that emerged was not newer, cleaner, but aged and weary.

("_M's bag of tricks will need to be retrieved." Nemo said quietly, after an eternity of regarding silence. Sanderson Reed's naked carcass lay not far from the trio. Far below, a black blemish against the lake of white was slowly being claimed by the flurries of snow._

_  
"I'll do it." Mina seemed about to protest but the captain lay a hand on her arm, conveyed an unspoken word with his eyes. Her expression marred but she remained silent. Nemo turned to Tom._

_  
"We will run a line down for you."_

_  
He produced a faint smile. "Thanks, Captain." _

_  
It took more than an hour to scale down the wall that separated the iced-over cliff from the mainland. Tom -- hooked up to a rudimentary harness that would keep him from being killed if he were to slip -- descended slowly, clad in a much thinner jacket than the down parka to improve mobility. He didn't feel the cold, didn't feel the sharp ice and rocks as they nicked his fingers and palms through the gloves, didn't feel the biting wind at his back. It seemed like minutes and his feet were touching the pillow of snow at the base of the precipice. He unfastened the metal clip from the belt around his waist, gave a wave to the half a dozen men above, and started across the ice._

_  
Snow blanketed the body in a thin film, melted only in a small spot that revealed a clean, quarter sized hole almost exactly between the villain's shoulder blades. Steam still rose from the puncture in the slow, simmering gate of vapor from the lip of a warm kettle. Moriarty's suave features were slack, his skin tinged blue, ice forming the smallest stalactites on the tip of his nose, the lobes of his ears, frosting the crowns of his cheeks. His eyes were open at half-mast, glazed with death cataracts. _

_  
Tom didn't realize that he had unslung the Winchester from the strap on his back until the first shot split the air, until he tasted burnt gunpowder, until Moriarty's body jumped with impossible animation. Black, clotted blood erupted into the air as his debonair face caved, as the side of his skull burst like a shattered egg, ropy discharge splattering out across the ice, billowing steam. _

_  
He stood over the body, heart pounding a violent war drum in his ears, gasping raggedly, trembling with such fury the muzzle of the rifle shook. He fired into the shapeless mass again and again, spraying the toes of his boots with lukewarm blood; thumbed back the cock, each gunshot the sound of another nail pounding into Quatermain's coffin; he punched the trigger, over and over, stumbling back with the clout of a recoil that had never seemed so strong before. Moriarty, black and red, blurred into the surrounding blaze of crystal snow as Tom's vision warped and swam. He shot, until there was nothing left of Moriarty's head but a repulsive puddle of blood, shards of bone and clods of hair, until his back was peppered with holes, until—_

_  
--until all the Winchester produced were dry, rasping clicks. _

_  
One hand fumbled for the extra magazine in the breast pocket of his coat, fingers cold and stupid against the button holding the cloth flap closed. He cursed, and the gun slipped from his numb grip. _

_  
Tom staggered. His knees gave, and he dropped into the snow._

_  
A wild, animal sound of anguish tore from him, pierced the glacial air singular and wretched. He put his clenched fists to his streaming eyes, and sobbed._

_  
"The samples weren't there. There's a place where the ice is thin; it probably fell through."_

_  
"I will dispatch divers, but in these waters recovery might be impossible." _

_  
"We can only hope." Nemo concurred with Mina with a small nod. Both of their faces were carefully constructed in passivity; if either heard the episode they gave no indication, did not broach the subject after. For that, he was grateful._

_  
Another part of him almost wished they would have.)_

_  
_Recovery had been tedious. The Nautilus had stagnated three days on the river's bank while the scientists and their families trekked the white Mongolian wasteland, lead by armed sailors flanking the train of handcuffed and cowed, the pitiful remainders of M's revolutionary army. Quatermain and Skinner had both been carried back with them, Jekyll tending to the latter. At the time, there had been no assurances that only one corpse would arrive.

Mina, Nemo and himself had remained behind, shifting through the black skeleton remains of the fortress, collecting 'items of interest.' Their concern had been with the procurement of what had made M so great, so terrible -- his blueprints, his experiments, the remains of the knowledge that had perished with the violated grey folds of the villain's cerebrum.

_  
(He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for; he had discovered some brittle documents that had survived the explosion, but an attempt to collect them had disintegrated the fragile paper to dust beneath his fingertips. Nemo had found a phial of clear fluid amongst a pile of glass shards, it was tucked into his belt. Mina carried a square object approximately two feet wide and high under one arm, but the canvas covering kept him from identifying it._

_The agent kicked over a pile of wood, sending cinder chaff bursting into the air._

_"Here's another one!" Nemo and Mina both glanced up. Tom knelt down, brushed soot from the face of the body. Most of the flesh had been seared away by the flames, reduced to crusts of black and planes of greasy pink. The agent touched for a pulse, expressed no surprise when the vein proved still, cold beneath his fingers. Sawyer pawed off his hat; snowflakes clung to his hair and eyelashes. "Looks like one of yours, Captain."_

_Nemo bowed his head, closed his dark eyes for a heartbeat, and moved towards the younger man.)_

It was three days before other agents arrived from the colonized coast of China to assume the task, and by that time they had only gotten through the personal quarters of Sanderson Reed and Mortiary himself, even with the handful of Nemo's men returning to assist in their search of the snow strewn rubble. Once seven, then three, they had trekked back to the Nautilus together, taciturn and distant in something that transcended physical confines. It took a full day of hiking to reach the ship's moorings, and they were greeted by Skinner's tortured screams.

One of the Nautilus' many freezers had been emptied of its contents, the bodies of their dead stored on metal tables, each formless, covered mass indistinguishable from the next. Tom hadn't the chance to locate Quatermain's remains, to properly grieve, thrust into realizing the extent of the ship as they made room for the scores of refugees. Rooms had to be opened, furnished and cleaned. Their small infirmary was instantly overwhelmed with the wounded, and part of the gymnasium had to be converted into a temporary hospital. The kitchen and galley that had once been more than sufficient for the seven of them and the crew was severely lacking for the sudden crowd. Above all, with most of Nemo's men cooling, stiffening in the bowels of the ship, they had been staggeringly short of hands.

Nets had to be cast out to harvest game from the sea; coal had to be shoveled into the ship's sodium converting broilers; the pumps for the flooded chambers needed maintenance and manning; with time, under the enormous pressure of the water, the welded scars on the Nautilus' flanks had folded like paper and had been in constant want of repair; bedding, clothes and bandages had to be washed; food had to be baked and served, the dishes cleaned; there were instruments in the hospital that needed sanitizing, minor wounds that even he could treat; the children of the scientists were constantly getting lost or otherwise in need of entertainment. He had been terrified of nightmares of Quatermain, of Skinner, but never suffered them. Every night he had collapsed into his room, managed a few hours of thin, dreamless sleep before having to drag himself up again. Mina and Jekyll, as the vessel's only physicians, were even worse off.

Their return trip had been made at considerably less than maximum speed and completely above surface. Over a month it took to return to England around the Asian continent, through Egypt's Suez canal and across the Mediterranean. After the first week or so, the days blurred into each other, indistinguishable, and he had hardly felt the passage of time.

He'd been numb, and too busy to care.

_(The sun was just peering over the horizon, a bloated, infected crimson eye, and the distant air rippled with the sudden heat. Red light flooded over the ground, over the skeletal construct that was to be the rebuilt Britannica Club, skirting the crooked tombstones and ragged crucifix markers with long shadows._

_  
He, Jekyll and Nemo, along with a few of the natives, had been digging since the morning was new, tilling the parched ground under the damning desert heat, heat that soared from a scorching simmer to a dry broil with the appearance of the sun. Flies, mosquitoes buzzed in his ears, and he had long since given up swatting at them. His shirt was plastered to his skin, caked with the red dirt each shovel throw kicked up; his hair clung to his face, stinging sweat ran into his eyes. They finished by early afternoon, could not have continued even if they had not – by then, the heat was something solid and excruciating. _

A cab took them back to their hotel where they washed, readied themselves for the funeral. They rode back to the cemetery with Mina and Skinner, the former clenching a telegraph in her hand.

The world closed her eye on the three men as it had opened -- toiling, this time filling the grave.) 

_  
_"We put rocks on to keep the critters from gettin' him."

Tom jolted, not realizing he had spoken the words until they rebounded through the otherwise silent cabin, and the sound of them galvanized him back from the half-dream world of abject memory. He rubbed his hand over his eyes again, took the books and replaced them, titles facing the wall.

A swift, sudden shift in perception, and the books, unsupported, toppled once again. Tom frowned, retrieved them and set them anew, unconsciously tuning to find cause of the disturbance.

The Nautilus had stopped.

A look out the porthole proved that the scenery had not changed, though he supposed they could have risen; the darkness of the sea was not so different from the sky of a cloud cast night. Tom waited a minute, two, for the Nautilus to resume her voyage, or for the captain to visit with an explanation, which was the usual decorum for unscheduled stops.

Neither occurred. The Nautilus remained inert, her halls silent of footsteps.

Tom shook his head, and grabbed his jacket.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, not finding him at the helm or in the saloon, Tom was considering giving up when he happened upon two members of the crew, the two apparently having some directed intent. He followed them discreetly, and came upon Nemo in the bowels of the ship. 

The captain was pulling one of the diving suits that Sawyer had seen just briefly in Venice over his normal attire, a number of the other sailors already clad in the strange white ensembles, pickaxes and shovels in hand. When the door opened Nemo turned to him, regarded him deadpan. Tom shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, was about to retreat when the captain spoke.

"Do you wish to accompany me on an expedition, Agent Sawyer?"

Tom blinked. Of everything, those were the words least expected. His eyebrows shot into his hairline, fell into a furrow with the slight, confused frown that followed. "But . . ."

"The package will arrive on its prescribed date, not to worry. I would not dare delay any English bloodshed." The words were strangely bitter, and the captain seemed to drift into another plane as a heavy metal pack was secured over his shoulders and back. He hardly flinched under the weight. He came back to the present just a moment gone, cocked his head in a 'Well?' gesture.

Sawyer shifted again, cupped his elbow with one hand. The agent shot a considering glance out the open panel.

"There's no air out there, captain." He said somewhat lamely.

Nemo emitted an uncharacteristic chuckle. "Very astute, Agent Sawyer."

As it was said a member of the crew capped Nemo's suit with one of the strange circular helmets, screwed it into attachment with the rest of the suit. Tom saw no tube emitting from the top, which, on any other vessel, would be connected with the boat to provide oxygen. Instead, two hoses looped from the helmet, and as he watched, where hooked into a circular gauge attached to the metal backpack.

The captain regarded him from that alien metal fishbowl helmet, and Tom shifted, glanced out the door, back into the sterile hallway. How long would they be stopped for? How long would he be left to sit in his room, let to . . .

"I never was one to turn down an adventure." He shrugged, the words issued without any of the owner's famed enthusiasm. What might have brought a ghost of a smile to the captain's face before failed to do so, and he simply nodded. Two of the sailors converged before the agent with a suit between them, and blocked the captain from view.

* * *

Tom Sawyer had flown over the sparkling oceans in a hot air balloon and seen them glisten like diamonds in the sunset, had seen the rolling deserts that wove endless sand sashes across the Middle Eastern landscape, had seen the yellow plains of Africa ripple in the wind like water. He had seen the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the United States Capitol, Lady Liberty, Big Ben and Parliament. 

None compared to the beauty of the Coral Kingdom.

When the docking bay finally opened, submerging them in cold water, evidently dawn had just come – bars of light shot spears through cerulean water that was as clear as the sky itself, illuminating the considerable depths with stunning white light. Nemo was at the head of the congregation; he produced a lantern to add to the radiance and motioned for them to move forward. Sawyer stood just behind the captain, behind him, about twenty-five crewmembers carried pickaxes, shovels, and the occasional lantern; hammocked between each was a long white bundle.

Thirty feet or so below the surface, the seabed stretched before them not smooth planes of underwater beach but cragged and disjointed towers, sconce rock pillars and walls, giving the impression that they were not walking through some natural reef but rather the fallen remnants of some deity's submarine citadel. This terrain parted before them a narrow valley, marred with mazes of rock edifices great and small.

They walked at a constant downward slope, though Sawyer hardly took note. All around, on the jagged outcroppings of the territory, was coral. Brittle, mottled bunches of coral, their colors sundry, vivid and brilliantly rich. They blanketed the surrounding walls and overhangs, the ground beneath their feet, so thick the underlying rock was impossible to glimpse.

Spongy, alabaster shelves stretched out from the bulkheads in stair step mushrooms, flanked by shoots of white stems dotted with the tiniest of pink starflowers. Trees that looked like collected thatches of yellow bone collided with smaller scrubs of thick, rubbery tentacles, their more supple bodies rippling and dancing in the soft current. Cliffs on either side were encrusted with a porous scum, broken by erupting sea flower shrubbery, while loose-fingered plant hands grappled up towards the surface from protruding ledge faces, their bodies swaying with the water's unseen breathing. Tubes of mustard colored coral wound the ground, marred with open holes like anthills, while their brother pipes shot up in miniature chimneys. Flat plants waved at them in large vertical fans. Moss blankets rippled upward to reveal vibrant lavender underbellies. Crimson cauliflower underbrush peeked from every hole. Overhead, dappled light filtered through brilliant green hanging plants, their long leaves ribbed with canary yellow.

Among them swarmed thousands of fish, even more colorful than the coral in which they lived – pinks, oranges, blues and greens -- their bodies spotted and striped in every imaginable pattern. The group advanced, and the fish flittered away, retracting back into the tentacle beds, the cavernous holes of their skeletal home. Turtles drifted by, unmindful of their presence. Stingrays, their wings rippling, skated over the surface of the seabed.

The only sound was his own heavy breathing inside the helmet, the muted crunch as the delicate formations were crushed under their heavy boots. He tried to avoid the structures but they were carpeting every surface as far as the eye could see, and he soon gave up. The captain kept a tight line, ensuring the damage would be minimal, and Sawyer trusted he knew what he was doing.

"Huck would have loved this." Tom breathed, the voice sounding strange and hollow in the helmet, and for once the words held no grief; it was impossible to feel anything but candid wonder amongst the sea's wilderness. He reached out, brushed one of the colorful, spindle branches that extended out to him. The plant recoiled in an almost human gesture; the flowers withdrew into their buds so quickly he almost laughed out loud. The beauty was overwhelming, and isolated in the diving suit, unable to communicate with the others save exorbitant hand gestures, he lamented the inability to converse and connect, to share the amazing spectacle with another.

He wasn't sure how long they walked, maybe hours, though he wasn't tired – walking through the water in the heavy suit was tedious but was otherwise undemanding, and in a sort of exhilaration he imagined he could walk in the depths forever. After a time the natural light dimmed to nothing, the coral disappeared, presumably the water too deep for it to continue growing. Then, their only light came from the electric lanterns, and they proceeded through the ocean's deep wreckage – petrified trees and mineral coliseums, caught in the dim light to be revealed as almost spectral -- while the coral at their feet was replaced with a glittering carpet of sea loam.

Then, abruptly, they stopped. Sawyer blanched, glanced around. He had never questioned exactly what task the so-called expedition aimed to accomplish, and with their presumable arrival he found himself confused. There was nothing before them but empty water and a circular plane, the ground marred with oblong mounds, the upraised dirt collected in rows with the mathematic precision of . . .

Tom made a low noise in his throat as the men behind him came forward. He glanced at their shovels, at the bundles carried between them. The white garbed silhouettes were laid on the ground in a way that reminded Tom of cigarettes, and the men, Nemo included, began to dig.

At the center of the plain, erected on a tower of tumbled rocks, a great cross of crimson coral stood sentinel.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

A cemetery. They had come to bury their dead.

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake."

Tom picked up his own shovel, murmuring the only psalm he knew, one even years of bible school had not managed to tattoo into his heart.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. . ."

He went to join the gravediggers.

* * *

It was late in the day when they returned to the Nautilus. Tom was lightheaded from what he imagined was something to do with his air supply; he shed the suit gratefully, knowing he was going to be sore for days. 

Nemo had remained the longest over the graves (and there had been fifteen? Twenty? Tom had lost count) on his knees, head bowed, and even in the silence of the sea it was impossible to hear if he were praying. After a time he had risen, and nothing of his stance betrayed any emotion. Tom wanted to say something to him now that they could speak and he struggled to find words, to recall the same hollow comforts . . .

He didn't get the chance. Released of his bindings, the captain departed without preamble. In minutes, a subtle purr signified the Nautilus' engines stirring.

Tom trudged back to his room; he fell into bed without bothering to undress. Immediately, he dropped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, the first since the departure from London to Africa, the first since the nightmares finally came.

* * *

Well, not too much advancement of plot . . but action will come shortly. Also, I have no discernable knowledge of the Bible, so if the quote was inappropriate, please let me know and I will be sure to fix it. Hopefully Tom wasn't out of character; I often struggle with him, for some reason . . . 

My muse responds very positively to reviews!


	4. Chapter 4: Sunlight on a Broken Column

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

So very, very sorry for this incredibly late update. Vacation, in her internet-connection-less glory, is a very cruel mistress.

Many thanks for my wonderful reviewers, as well as everyone who has been patient with both my tardiness and break from plot in the last chapter (though it is important to the story overall, I promise!) This chapter marks the triumphant return to the main action. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Four: Sunlight on a Broken Column

* * *

There was a strangeness to the sea. 

Submerged, it was not necessary to illuminate more than the Nautilus's most immediate surroundings, and such light, furthermore, was for purposes chiefly cosmetic. His lady was accustomed to depth and absence, and her technology was a far better guide in such conditions than the captain could hope to be.

This was one such instance. In the projected light, only a few hundred meters of the night environment lay revealed, a monotonous landscape of clear water that dimmed at the periphery into twilight. Beyond, the naturally tenebrous state reasserted its claim; without even the denizen of stars, such darkness was far more infinite than night.

It occurred to him strange there were no fish, no mammals drawn to the ship's glow, as they were so often apt to be, or otherwise gathered to challenge the swiftness of the craft as they sped to recover time lost. The impression flitted through his consciousness in passing, was gone just as quickly, dismissed without credence. Having traversed the familiar waters countless times before and anticipating no obstacle, the captain found himself in a rare state, one distracted from recognizing the alien signs heralding disaster. Standing at the helm, guiding the Nautilus with only the smallest of influential touches, his mind was set on other matters.

Notably, the disparaging idiosyncrasies of his fellow man.

His lined brow furrowed further at the impromptu phrasing of the internal narrative, his dark eyes flashed. If, of course, he were to count the English as countrymen, to categorize himself as such, now that he was once again under censured rule. Five years a lapdog to the government that had taken from him both homeland and kin, the government that had forced him into a life of so-called piracy, one that now had the presumption to offer him some legal extrication not worth the parchment or ink used to inscribe it, when what was sought—

_(Almighty God! Enough! Enough!)_

-- could not so easily be attained, an end that could be assured with no such confidence.

Binding himself to such servitude made his stomach twist.

It was in the throws of such reflections that, after miles of unchanged marine landscape, the compass marker changed direction.

It was with almost sentient confusion that the needle wrenched away from the northernmost point of the ornamental, circular base, and swung south. The arrowhead hesitated over the cursive S for a moment, then slowly began to creep west.

Nemo eyed the metal binnacle in which the compass was embedded, resisted the instinct to reach over and tap the glass casing. It was possible, probable, that that tool simply needed correction, most assumedly having buckled to the influence of magnetic properties possessed by the other materials in the ship.

"Depth?"

"Fifty fathoms, Captain."

Had he been green to the sea, he might have accepted the immediate rationalization. In all of his years as captain and navigator, however, Nemo had yet to see such a violent reaction. Even allowing for the curious occurrence, such an event should have been prevented by the two correcting compasses flanking the sides of the binnacle.

Nemo returned his eyes to the ocean, brow deeply creased.

"We're receiving some interference with the sound location signaling, Captain."

The curt notification, and the bridge returned to the steady hold of the chronometer's timekeeping, at tool that, with three days of unseasonable overcast, had been reduced to useless decoration. Their path was well documented and charted; however, the calculations with which they proceeded were scientific speculation at best, and the first clear day there would no doubt be hours spent in regaining proper coordinates. Nemo met the circumstances with humility; even with his revolutionizing technologies, it was the archaic blessings of Surya that imparted his livelihood.

The sound discontinued. Nemo balked, glanced over his shoulder. The mariner desk was to the posterior of the room, its oak surface dressed with unrolled atlases marked in a seaman's cipher, scattered with protractors, rulers, dividers, and the sextant.

The chronometer, perched at the corner of the methodic mess, had fallen still.

"Forty fathoms, Captain."

Across the room, both the mounted topographical map and the silver, avatar dragon tracing their path quivered to a halt. The light at the tip of the claw hovered over the empty plane of sea southwest of the Dutch East Indies.

Nemo's hands tightened over the steering wheel's spokes.

"Reduce speed to ten knots." The calm command was executed without word, and the craft slowed to a crawl. The sea, meanwhile, had remained unchanged, flecks of silt drifting up to catch the ship's light like embers.

Beside Nemo, the barometer plummeted without cause.

"Captain, the sound navigation is no longer responding."

The needles of the pressure dials netting the walls began to flutter in manic, butterfly gestures. The compass pointer continued to whirl like a dowsing rod, east, then, counter-clockwise, west.

It started to spin, possessed with a wild, demonic confusion.

"Patel, inform the crew of our immediate rise. Use the radio location once we are surfaced."

The bridge had slowly but surely filled throughout the episode, men attempting to tap out sound signals, listening with the headphones to the resonance, others toying with the valves in an attempt to resolve their bizarre, unfounded readings. Patel, the first mate since Ishmael's passing, looked up from where he was studying the mounted atlas and nodded, exited briskly.

There was a deep rumbling in the bowels of the vessel as the pumps shuddered, came to life with the powerful jettisoning of water from the flooded tanks. Twin geysers flanked the sides of the Nautilus as she rose into a sharp incline, and swiftly mounted the ocean's surface.

The previous calm of the lifeless undersea shattered. The Nautilus had emerged into the raging heart of a catastrophic tempest.

The white light that had revealed the cold depths was now blinding, reflected back upon the source by way an opaque, all-encompassing fog, while the open panel itself was shrouded by a veil of swarming, savage rain. The silence was violated by a high, piercing howl, the outside wind's terrible banshee scream, interjected by the godhead warring of omnipresent thunder. The surface's waves were in furious upheaval, towing and lobbing the Nautilus in an imperious waltz with their livid, jagged motions.

Nemo moved to balance the Nautilus, to correct their path. The once-still bridge came to life as the lookouts turned from their sedentary posts to emerge on deck. Toggles were manipulated, and the rumbling of the water's ejection as well as the shrieking wind was overcome by the sound of the mast extending from its telescopic sheath within the conning tower.

"Reduce the lights." They were instantly cut to a low resolution, but the surrounding flashes of lightning proved to duplicate the sabotaging effect. In the dark breaks between blinding illumination, rain reflected as needles of silver lashing down in sheets. The fog, grey and dense as landmass, obscured any landscape past that most immediate.

"The radio location system is experiencing heavy interference, Captain . . ."

Nemo's hands tightened, his knuckles searing white. His lips pressed into a thin, grim line as the first touch of trepidation brushed feathery fingers across his heart.

"The sounding line is showing twenty-five fathoms."

Those were the only words uttered for nearly ten miles while the Nautilus crept, blind and sedate, through the storm, her hull listing and dragging with the savage pull and battering of the sea, pitching as the colossal waves slammed into her sides. Nemo guided with tight precision, hands clenched on the sweat slick spokes of the wheel as its inanimate, mechanical resistance sought to tear from his grasp.

The compass spun.

"We're picking up objects in the distance, Captain." Tense silence, then a hesitant addition, "Their exact size and location is unclear, the signal—"

The second mate was cut off by a shrill, grating scream. The Nautilus exploded into a convulsive shudder as her stern clipped some immobile obstacle, and buckled.

* * *

_Quatermain stood with his back to him, looking out on the chasm of the world. "My son died of smallpox."_

_Tom stuttered, shook his head. "But . . . but you said . . ."_

_"I lied, boy. I never taught Harry to shoot."_

A blow to the head knocked Tom clean from the confused world of dreams and into the shock of sudden, inexplicable pain. He jackknifed up in bed, clutching his skull, dazed and seeing stars. An indignant yell was half out of his mouth when the ground dropped violently from underneath him, and he was airborne.

His back collided with the opposing wall of his cabin simultaneous with his body hitting the floor; instinctively, he threw up his hands to cover his head. Books, tokens and other debris slid, unsecured, from the surrounding surfaces and hit the wall with a machine gun clatter, pelted the agent in a sudden fury.

Tom lay for a moment, guarded against further attack, still fumbling for reason when he felt the ship begin to tilt again and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his jacket, was hurled off balance and into the door of his cabin. Tom pushed himself off, cursing, threw open the door and staggered into the hall.

The corridor resounded with the thunder of booted feet as crewmen raced to the hatchway, dropping down into the underbelly of the ship or heading upwards to the bridge and deck. Shouts flew through the air in a language Tom didn't understand, the words drowned out by louder, earth shattering bellows of actual thunderclaps.

Jekyll was looking out from the cabin across from his, face harried and flushed, a jacket thrown hastily over his sleepwear. "What's happened?"

"I don't—" A twisted shriek of warped, defiled metal, punctuated by a concussive jolt. Tom was pitched into his room's doorframe; Jekyll was tossed to the floor. Tom stumbled forward and grabbed the other man, hauled him roughly to his feet, and the two fumbled down towards the hatchway.

"Captain!" Nemo was braced against the steering wheel, thick chords standing out in his neck as he forced it against its apparent intent, concurrently shouting commands over the sound of screaming metal.

"Increase speed ten knots! I must have steerage-way!" The ship rolled violently and the captain was flung from his grasp. The wheel spun in a feckless, blurred propeller. Jekyll leapt forward and grabbed the spokes, shoved himself against its counter-drive and let out a vehement howl that was chilling in its resemblance to Hyde's war cry. Tom pushed the disconcerting realization away and was instantly beside him, hands on the polished silver handles, and the two fought for every centimeter gained.

Another shrieking grind and the ship stuttered forward, banked hard right. Nemo staggered back to his feet and retook the wheel, and with the three men's combined effort the ship began to turn, leveling sharply.

"What did we hit?!"

Sawyer didn't hear the reply, only caught the impression of enraged confusion. A shouted notice and the agent released the wheel, retreated back to the hatchway, followed by Nemo's continued orders to the crew.

"Club haul the anchor!"

Tom started up the hatchway ladder, amidst a flood of other crewmen, most sporting grapnels and lengths of rope. The agent burst through the heavy door, and his hand was nearly taken off when it slammed behind him with the force of the wind.

The night circumvented from all around, siphoned all the radiance from the electric lights, became some tangible spirit of oblivion. Grey fog engulfed the water's surface, pins of ferocious rain tore as bullets in the screaming gale. Massive waves slammed into the Nautilus's sides like cymbals in some otherworldly, discordant orchestra, crashing across the deck and swamping it with sour, stinging water.

Blind and fumbling, Sawyer was soaked through in a matter of seconds. A wave barreled into him, sent him from his feet and under its acolyte. Acerbic water flooded his mouth, burned up his nose and down his throat; he coughed and sputtered and swallowed wretched lungfuls. _I'm going to drown—_ Someone grabbed him and dragged him to his feet, disappeared before he could make identification.

"Port!" At the head of the conning tower, Skinner's trench coat was flapping wildly in the wind, water running a rill from the brim of his trilby. He was clutching the apex of the railing to keep balance against the wild careening of the ship. The bandages wrapping his figure were sodden, the outline of his invisible limbs misty through the downpour. "_PORT! _Left, you bloody wankers_, LEFT!"_

A flash of lightening bleached away their surroundings; in its wake stood revealed a line of crewmen, lobbing the small anchors into the air, securing the ropes to the deck, sliding on the slick metal, water breaking in great bursts of foam over their laboring forms. Sawyer frowned in confusion, they were throwing the anchors into the sea-?

The next bright flash illuminated their ends. A jagged black outcropping the size of a cathedral erupted from the empty plane of water without source or cause. Enormous black, studded spires flared from its surface like a conch shell's projections, spires that impaled the metal of the Nautilus's flanks even as they crumbled and broke away, dropping into the sea below with ruptures of white froth.

A wave slammed into the ship, forcing them forward and away from the outcropping's embrace. The cables anchoring the ship to the rock face snapped in rolling lines, ricochet back with murderous whiplash. Men went tumbling into the rolling water.

Sawyer whirled around. To the rear there was another cliff, its sides freshly shaven, glinting silver lacerations like claw marks. Tom lurched backward with impact as the Nautilus's bow found another obstacle, and it emerged from the smoke a looming black tombstone, its black crown indiscernible from the sky, Tom grabbed the nearest thing to keep himself from slipping under the waves again, felt cold metal.

The masts' ladder. He looked up, vision running with the invading water, and shoved his wet bangs out of his eyes. What seemed hundreds of feet above, the crow's nest appeared empty.

Without a second of consideration, Tom started up the ladder.

The metal rungs were slick, and the climb up was marred with a near slip every few steps. The open air left him unprotected from the biting, frigid wind that seemed intent on his demise, every siren shriek a death note in his ear. Tom climbed, shaking and cursing, climbed for an eternity, and just as he was considering weary abandonment he found the round, metal lip. The agent grabbed the nest's bulwark and hauled himself up into the flooded cage. He lay in the frigid, ankle-deep pool for a moment before pulling himself to his feet, hazarding a glance over the edge.

As he watched, the rain and fog, for a brief instant, seemed to clear away, as if shooed by ethereal hand. It was just for a moment, but it was enough.

_"It's a minefield!"_ He screamed, and it was lost on the thunder.

Cousin to the first encountered ledge was an entire mountain range, a wall of rocks stretching in every direction without break, a black scar on the surface of the churning waves; the rest of the sea passage was studded with outcroppings that erupted from the sea like stalagmites, huge, misshapen, marred with jagged spikes and cliffs.

They were trapped.

The scream had broken his voice and Tom swallowed hard to shout again when they were slammed by the biggest wave yet, the Nautilus banking on her side until she broached, the deck touching the serrated surface of the sea.

The mast wavered, and snapped like kindling.

Tom was suddenly weightless, falling through open air, down towards the gnashing ebony waves.

He screamed.

_(I never taught Harry to shoot.)_

Impact never came.

Tom opened his eyes with bated breath, blinking away stinging water. A grey, demon face greeted him, its head of red hair plastered to a horrendous countenance.

Heat flooded his face. The agent offered a wry, sheepish grin. "Nice weather, huh?" He was set down on the floor of the conning tower.

"Watch him." Was the gravelly growl elsewhere directed, before the figure disappeared in a veil of black over the side of the deck. Tom felt himself being hauled to his feet, could see Skinner's grin through the caul of water covering his face.

"Much prefer Mina _with_ make-up, if you ask me." The thief laughed with hysterical abandon. He'd apparently given up any pretention of usefulness and took a swig from a flask in hand, turned back to the tempest around them a shouted to the sky in the spirit of joviality: "Is that all you've got?! _I buggered your mum, and she was one sodding fuck!" _

The ship bucked, gave one final, horrendous heave, caught on the crest of a tsunami wave. The Nautilus listed until she was nearly horizontal, and was flung into the rock barrier ahead with speed and forced of a chambered bullet ignited.

Tom felt Skinner grab him, felt himself pulled into a protective hold as the invisible man threw his back against the railing, braced into the impending cataclysm. The sound of the metal on rock pierced a terrible resonance that muted all others.

And then everything stopped.

After a minute, Tom looked up in almost drunken wonder, some part of him convinced they must be dead. His ears buzzed, his head ached, the marrows of his bones trembled as he glanced over his shoulder.

The wall was less than a foot from the bow.

Skinner released the younger man, let out a shuddering chuckle and fell into a sit on the heavily angled conning tower, tipped back another drink from the flask. The crewmen, who had also braced themselves for impact, jumped back into action, taking the lull to fasten the ship to the surrounding cliff faces. Tom could tell it wasn't necessary; they weren't going anywhere.

"Well, that was fun." Skinner offered the flask to Tom, who had also settled into a sit, both unmindful of the continued thunderstorm that somehow seemed placid now that they weren't in its sadist grasp. " 'ave a go?"

Tom took it without hesitating, swallowed a heavy gulp. Scotch burned down his throat, and he sputtered and coughed. Skinner thumped his back. "Easy there, ickle Tom." The thief chuckled, ruffled the agent's soaked hair companionably. "Can't 'ave two sots on board, can we?"

* * *

The sun rose a few hours later. By then the worst was long over, and with the first rays of light the already withering rain slowed to a halt. The sun appeared without tapestry or preamble, simply leaping into the sky, and the world in the grasp of the new day was fresh with the cleanliness that only seems to accompany calamitous storms. The daylight gleamed over the black outcroppings and glistening water, reflected the silver of the Nautilus, who lay against the broken backdrop like a beached trout. 

Tom, bruised but otherwise unhurt, emerged from the ship, skated down the heavy, drunken slant of the Nautilus's deck, walking halfway on the railing as he crossed the ship's length. Above the ship's prone form, crowning the bulbous projection looming above in the sudden mountain range, an almost iconic silhouette stood, looking out into the landscape.

Tom crossed the forged metal to the rock face, trekked up the steep incline to meet the figure.

He stood for a moment, unacknowledged, before venturing, "So, we're uh . . . pretty stuck."

Nemo lowered the spyglass and nodded distractedly. "A minor inconvenience." He did not turn to look at Tom. Tom, instead, shaded his eyes against the sun and peered out to what the captain had been studying.

"An island?"

Another distanced nod, and Nemo offered the spyglass.

"Look there." Tom raised the tool to one eye and looked through, following the captain's pointing finger away from island, to the further extensions of the rock wall.

He was about to protest to the significance of looking at more outcroppings when he spotted it: a ragged wooden crucifix, cutting up towards the sky, the tattered remains of a sail flapping in the slight morning breeze. Hanging from the top of the mast were two flags, the first the red emblem of the merchant navy, the second a visual appeal for aid.

"It seems we've found _The Palestine_."

* * *

Well, I certainly hope it was worth the wait, though the pacing seems a little rushed . . I may have to come back through and edit later (again). You didn't really think I was just going to have a story about delivering a letter now, did you? Also, this is not, I repeat, _NOT_, a story about _The Island of Doctor Moreau_. Though that would have been interesting, it has been done, so I was forced to find other works in which to base my premise. 

Next chapter will hopefully be up by Monday or Tuesday, and Jekyll will finally get some much deserved attention. Reviews are, as always, gratefully appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5: In the Wind's Singing

**Disclaimer: **The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

A/N: I'm very, very late, as if you already didn't know. My most humble apologies, but the holiday season made my life a little madcap for a while. Special thanks to **Obi's Second Cousin** and **Skunk and Hedgehog** from their continued support!

Also, I would like to announce that the sequel to this story is already in the works, and will feature the return of a certain original member (as if you need to be told who.) My schedule has recently cleared, so, though I've lied before, I will try hard to make sure this story is done before the summer, and said continuance is up as soon as possible. (Which I'm very excited about.)

Lastly, I would also advise of a slight change of format. Anything within (_parenthesis and in italics) _concerns something occurred/said in the past; whereas, anything in plain _italics _is thoughts/words emphasized/or our lovely companion, Mr. Hyde.

Hope it isn't too confusing. I will be going back and editing the chapters for both content and format, though there will likely be no dramatic alterations.

* * *

Chapter Five: In the Wind's Singing

* * *

"We've run aground." 

The words issued with no more emotion than if the captain had been commenting on the fair weather that had succeeded the tempest. Tradition dictated that they gather in the saloon, where, under normal circumstances, Nemo would deliver news of their progress and a tidy timetable for events and impending arrival.

Presently, conditions broadly awry, they gathered expectant, tense but not forthcoming with their trepidation.

If the captain retained any of the room's pathos, it remained unannounced and discreet to the point of non-existence. His back was to the scattered cloud of them, feet apart, shoulders squared and hands folded neatly at the small of his back, standing like a soldier at ease. The words were the first to be uttered since the group of them had drifted in one by one, their bodies bruised and weary but otherwise unharmed.

In reaction to the ruckus caused by M's bombs, Nemo had apparently swallowed his pride and affixed every loose object that could be helped into immobility, from the paintings to the walls to the lamps upon the tables. The leather lounge chairs were nailed to the carpeted floor, the bookshelves secured; within the room, only the chandelier's crooked angle betrayed the ship's cockeyed rest. Any other signs of the previous hours' adventure had been briskly removed by some ambiguous force: broken glass had been swept, discharged books were stacked against the far wall neatly, and all other clutter had been cleared.

Skinner was draped languidly on the fixed bench adjacent to the piano, swathed in new, dry bandages. Mina was directly across from him in one of the leather armchairs, ankles crossed primly, hands folded, displaying none of the demon the storm had so candidly revealed. Sawyer was standing, leaning against the far doorframe.

Jekyll was swallowed in the armchair neighboring Mina's, body hunched, concentration focused on the thin bandages around the trunks of his hands. Post the episode in the cabin he had discovered large blisters, courteous the sharp wrenching of the steering wheel's spokes -- blisters made, then raked open. The lacerations were superficial, minor inconvenience at best; with fluttering motions, he un-tucked and replaced the gauze's frayed tails, swallowing convulsively, sweat dripping crystalline, stinging tears into his eyes.

His watch had stopped.

_You sniveling prat._

Science dictated that he should have built up some tolerance to the voice after so long enduring the constant barrage, the way a rank smell would seem unnoticeable after a time, or a dim light brighter after extended exposure. The ship's catastrophe had galvanized Edward to action, had woken his caged need for blood with a clamor and ardor; in the same sense the violence had served as a blessed distraction -- there was no time to recognize, to acknowledge Edward's screamed affronts

(_LET ME OUT, HENRY! WE HAD A DEAL, YOU PIDDLING LITTLE SHIT_)

when the world was falling down at his feet. It was the same when Skinner was hospitalized – the constant vigil had filled the dark hours with procedures and measurements too delicate for anything less than his full concentration; the unbearable pain of his patient had required his undivided attention -- which had been a duel blessing, for the latter had served to amuse his other into placation.

_(Rip it off, Henry; I want to hear the 'blackguard' squeal)_

These things had kept him alive, kept him level.

But like Skinner's eventual recovering, it was in the aftermath of the storm that Edward had regained his momentum, and in the saloon's silence, there were no distractions to keep Jekyll's mind elsewhere. The raging, screaming fit had passed, and Jekyll received the change with weary resignation; in ways, Edward was easier to manage in his rages. Like a petulant child, the cursing, rampant Hyde need only be endured – Henry had long since deadened himself, at least, to the depraved abuse that would make any sailor's ear blacken and rot off.

It was the sibilant words -- echoing and rebounding from each other into a jumbled chorus of ghost whispers, resonances of lies and half-truths delivered in devil tongue smoothness, in cavalier cajoles -- that he couldn't handle.

_You've got some half-wit notion that I can be assimilated do you, like yesterdays brunch? Or perhaps passed like a kidney stone, should you only fast long enough, pray hard enough, deny me my freedom? That I will simply one day cease to be?_

Elsewhere, a sardonic smirk had crept across the thief's grease painted features at the captain's declaration. "No—" A subtle kick and Skinner broke off with a wince of more surprise than pain. He glowered at the woman across from him, rubbing his shin.

_And where do you think my acquired tastes will go once your 'infallible' logic has come to fruition, hmm? The so-called Higher Space those Rosicrucian nutters are always blathering on about?_A raucous chuckle. _Your one talent has drawn attention, Henry._

In response, Jekyll faltered, glanced up.

Mina had not caught Skinner's look. Her sultry eyes were on the doctor, her sculpted, ivory brow lined in question.

Jekyll's hands fell away from each other; hot blood surged into his face. He coughed into one bandaged palm, jerked his eyes from hers in discomfiture. A flash on her countenance signaled the inquiry dropped without further provocation, and Mina turned just as effortlessly to address the captain. "I supposed we can flag some passing ship to tow us? Or the island, perhaps, has--?"

At this, Hyde harrumphed, shortly distracted from the current line of insult._ I could move the buggering thing myself, if you had the aptitude or balls to pull that mongoloid lump you call a head out of your arse--_

"Getting a little full of ourselves, are we?" Jekyll murmured, too low for the others to hear. Hyde met the words with renewed rancor.

The conversation continued around him.

"Such a measure would be unnecessary." Nemo returned from his own separate plane, turned from the landscape view to address them directly. "The hull withstood the brunt of the assault. The resulting damage will take no more than a day to repair."

"It's not the _damage_ I'm worried about." Tom piped up from the back of the room, eyes on the revolvers in his hands. "We're stucker'n a cow in a Mississippi mudslide." He looked up, caught the halo of quizzical expressions and offered a crooked, sheepish grin. "We're not going anywhere, I mean."

Nemo allowed for an indulgent smile. "In five days, there will be a full moon. It is not uncommon for the sea in areas such as these to ride three to four feet with the tide; with the added assistance of the lunar body, it should be enough to free us from our current quandary. As for the island . . ." He turned back to view the outlook. "As reported by every atlas in my possession, our current coordinates should be occupied by nothing more than hundreds of miles of open ocean."

"What about _The Palestine_? There could be survivors."

"The first mate has reported no sign of activity on the wreckage itself; it is likely any surviving members of _The Palestine's_ crew have taken refuge on the mainland. I will be sending a small number of crewmen as a search party—" Nemo continued tactfully, not acknowledging the sudden electricity that sparked the air to the rear of the room, "—any of you are welcome to join them, if you so desire."

Sawyer beamed, something that none of them had seen after Mongolia. Though it was not completely reminiscent of his former self, it lightened the air of the room like a cool breeze. A ghost of a smile crossed Mina's lips.

_You see the way she looks at him, Henry?_

"I will remain on board to oversee repairs to the Nautilus. And, unless there is anything further . . .?" At no raised objection, the Captain bowed, bade them farewell and swiftly exited the saloon.

The remainder of the League stagnated for a moment, looking between themselves awkwardly. Skinner was the first to speak. "So, we'll be off then?"

Mina frowned.

"If you mean by 'we', Agent Sawyer and I, then yes—"

_You sit in your room comparing the curve of her neck to an orchid's petal and she's dreaming sweet dreams of a young American fuck. He's twelve if he's a day and she sees more man in that whelp than in you--_

"—you will be remaining here with the captain."

Skinner's painted face twisted in a dramatic mask of disbelief. He stuttered, shot to his feet, "What, now all of you's my mum?" He threw his hands up. "Look, we poke about a bit, call for anybody 'ome, and then we bugger off. Christ, if I spend twenty goddamn more minutes on this floating snuffbox I may be forced to take drastic measures--!"

"You'll be lucky if the exposure earlier doesn't lead to another few days bedridden." The words had slipped out without the doctor realizing, and when he looked up in surprise to discover them uttered, he found Skinner's empty eyes narrowed behind the pince-nez in a scowl.

It was a look that made Hyde want to see if Skinner's blood would run invisible once outside its fragile flesh casing.

The doctor clenched his hands in his lap until the knuckles were white; bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. The actions went unnoticed.

"I'll have no theatrics, Mr. Skinner." Mina had risen as well, her no-nonsense expression set in stone. "You will remain here." Skinner's face twisted, his mouth opened and closed like a beached carp's; for the first time he was speechless.

Sawyer made a weak effort to stifle his enthusiasm for the imminent adventure. He holstered his pistols and drew into the room to clap the other man gently on the back. "Don't worry, buddy, you'll get the next one. I'll bring you back a shell or something."

Skinner brushed him off with an indignant gesture, turned and exited the saloon with a sharp flap of his leather coattails, Sawyer looking mildly offended. Mina called after the invisible man.

"I expect to see you on deck in an hour, Mr. Skinner!" An afterthought, "_Clothed!_"

_"Oh, piss off!"_

"Will you be joining us as well, Doctor?"

Jekyll's head rose at the gentle invitation, the words accompanied by an instant onslaught within his skull akin to that of a caged, rabid wolf. "Yes." He murmured after a moment, repeated, "Yes," his voice stabilizing in sureness.

"It will be nice," he added after a heartbeat, with a soft smile, "to see the world outside the Nautilus again."

Mina smiled tentatively to him. Removed, Hyde had calmed into something like satisfaction.

_That's a good boy, Henry. _

* * *

They had been given an hour to ready themselves, to pack an extra set of clothing and any essentials they would need, should their stay on the island be extended for some unforeseeable reason. Nemo had packed each of them a rucksack, complete with a few days worth of food rations and other emergency supplies. Upon receiving his, the two men had exchanged a meaningful glance; Jekyll had broken it with a jerked twist of negation. 

_I'll crush you, you half-witted TWAT!_

He had washed, dressed in a slightly more casual uniform for the expected terrain (meaning his usual suit, without a cravat or waistcoat), frittering away minutes that leached past like droplets of amber by drifting, tidying his room, packing, all the while conscious of Hyde's enraged screams and the box upon the table, though endeavoring to push them both from the forefront of his thoughts.

_You fucking, weaseling little PONCE!_

He had crossed to the box without knowing, stood before it trembling and unsure. His fingers grazed the wood paneling of the chest, came to rest on the metal of the latch. There was no mirror in the room, he kept the panel closed; the reflective surface of the box's handle had long since been painted over with pitch. The job was slipshod and harried -- a livid eye stared out at him from where the layering was thin. It disappeared, was replaced with a foaming mouth of saber teeth.

Jekyll swallowed hard, retracted one hand, pressed the other over the chest's lid, as if to affirm its security. He let out a trembling breath, and flung the case open.

(_"And you believe denying the beast will relieve you of your . . . affliction?")_

The doctor ran his fingers over the wire net of holders, fingers bumping in the uninhabited indentations. Empty, still.

(_"Well, indulging him certainly hasn't helped.")_

Jekyll closed his eyes, breathed a heavy, relieved sigh.

"Doc?" Jekyll's hand snatched back. Tom stood in the slightly open doorway, head ducked in. "You still coming?" Jekyll offered a slight smile, reached out and shut the case quickly with a muted clack.

"I'll be there in a moment, Agent Sawyer."

The agent grinned, and the door closed. The doctor passed a hand over his slick brow and reached for his jacket.

_What will you do, Henry? _Jekyll glanced over his shoulder, to the convex surface of the silver teapot lying across the room, upturned where it had fallen during the storms jarring. Hyde's misshapen, curved countenance glowered out from the polished surface. _You are nothing without me!_

A dry chuckle broke from the doctor as he fastened the buttons of his jacket with quavering hands. "You're wrong, Edward." He plucked his hat from the wall hook, did not look back at the mirrored surface as he sidled out the door, murmuring, "And I'll be rid of you yet."

The door closed on Hyde's enraged howl.

* * *

The remaining exploration pod had departed hours before with the sole passenger of Patel, who, by direction of Nemo, had taken the letter in an attempt to deliver it to the proper hands by the prescribed date. Davits were extended and a dinghy suspended over the side of the Nautilus's deck, ready to be lowered onto the glassy surface of the sea, the interior of the small boat already containing ten of Nemo's men. 

Jekyll stepped in, the craft rocking beneath his feet unsteadily in the open air. He turned and helped Mina, who took his arm, her eyes searching and posture wary, tuned to any signs of the unseen stowaway they all expected to have sneaked aboard. Much to their surprise Skinner appeared on deck a few minutes later in his trench coat and trilby and stood beside Nemo, the rouge's demeanor appearing no less cross. He and Sawyer exchanged words before Tom, too, dropped into the boat.

A shouted word, and they were slowly, seamlessly lowered. Above, Nemo bowed. Skinner offered a lackadaisical, two fingered salute. The boat touched the water with a subdued splash, the ropes were undone; the boat's small engine stirred and they set off.

The rock wall towered beside them, looming above in an impenetrable blockade. The Nautilus was beautiful and terribly incongruous against the backdrop, shining like a polished dagger amidst the craggy ebony range. Their small vessel shirted along the barrier's base as they moved from the wreck site, traversing close enough to the rocks to be dampened by the droplets of saltwater that splashed back from the sea's gentle respiration, to see the carpets of mollusk shells blink in time with the waves. Dwarfed by the immensity of it, feeling the sudden fragility of their small wooden craft, Jekyll could not help but swallow a sudden thickness in his throat.

Before long, a break in the black scar was found, and they moved into the island's open lagoon. It was then that the group of them caught their first unobstructed sight of the mainland.

The island broke from the green sea as a crowd of jagged mountain peaks that disappeared at their summits into the mists of high atmosphere, the island's base comprised of sheer foothills. The landmass was wider than the eye could take in at once, possessed a breadth unknown but undoubtedly massive. Every surface tumbled with the brilliant green of untamed jungle, foliage that ended only when the edges of the land simply fell away to the crashing white waves of the sea in abrupt cliffs. Fog clung to the island's lowlands, swamped the valleys between the disjointed, triangular mountains. Rivers and falls twisted among the peaks and hills, reflected in the radiant sunlight as arteries of silver.

And revealed in glimpses between the rolling landscapes, a bone white wall -- hundreds of feet high -- wound over the most immediate hills like the skeleton of great, stalking serpent.

Their small boat passed between the dotted outcroppings without trouble, the rocks, as they moved closer to the mainland, becoming capped with thatches of sharp grass and scraggly trees. They passed by close enough to touch the cinder colored boulders, and the glacier-like, submerged rock masses raked the bottom of the boat with hidden spurs. The island swelled, stretched to each end of the horizon as they grew closer.

"Those rocks." Stillness had overtaken the small crew since their departure, the craft directed with whispered words and bated breath. Jekyll's heart had nestled into his throat, he started at the words.

"What?" Tom, next to him, nodded to the nearest outcroppings without looking at the other man.

"Those rocks . . . they look like faces, don't they?"

Jekyll looked out.

It was as if a switch had been flicked. Staring out at him from every gleaming, serrated surface was an uneven, misshapen countenance; every cave and wound became an eye socket, a gaping mouth; ridges twisted into deformed noses; rugged hollows and buckled folds formed distorted clefts and brows. Everywhere, staring down at them, up at them, were organic profiles undeniable, hideous caricatures of human countenances.

And they were screaming, soundlessly. In agony, in terror.

"Don't be ridiculous." Mina responded, the words obviously intended to be admonishing but coming barely a whisper.

_Turn back_. It was not Hyde who spoke, but another voice. Had Jekyll believed Edward would stand for him having any other internal voice than the monster's own, Jekyll might have thought it his conscience, issuing a tentative, frightened warning.

His brow furrowed. There was something wrong. The idea touched him in passing, and he could not place its source, nor could he identify the danger; it dancing with a moth's fluttering beat just beyond his gasp. It stayed with him, gnawing in a persistent ache.

They reached the shoreline, where there was nothing resembling a beach, only ragged cliffs and caves. Water soughed against the boat, sloshed as the two men of the League and Nemo's sailors vaulted themselves over the side to push the craft the last few feet to the mouth of a gaping cavern. The water, in sharp contrast to the air, was frigid, and soaked them through to the knee as they slid the craft through shallow water that was fetid with sea debris and driftwood.

"Look." Sawyer muttered, pointing not far from them. Another longboat, its paint nearly worn away, lay on its side further inside the cave. Once their own boat was turned over and secured the agent jogged up to it, dropped to one knee. "Survivors, you think?"

He looked back at Jekyll, at Mina, rose. His excitement seemed to have tapered, and Jekyll noticed that the pistols always at his hips were in his grasp. It was the same for Nemo's crewmen -- their guns having gone from slung across their backs to tightly clutched within their hands.

"Let's get going, then." Mina expelled, the words echoing from the slick cave walls, and she hitched her skirt up with a gesture that was border unladylike to reveal her laced boots. She began to pick her way along the uneven stone floor, around the stalagmites that rose in great teeth from the cave's base. The others hurried to follow.

The cavern let out into a chasm so narrow they could only pass through one by one in a thin thread, bellies and backs scraping the rough walls of the rift as they crept through. The channel emptied into a narrow rock shelf that hovered over an abyss separating their landing place's body from that of the actual island, a gouge that seemed to cut down into the very center of the earth, the bottom dark except for flashes of white crests that, presumably, were churning waves below.

Sawyer picked up a fist sized stone, tossed it over the edge. In the almost unearthly silence, they undoubtedly would have heard the plunk! when the stone hit the water, and didn't. The agent, in a show of bravado, attempted to shrug off the occurrence, but was unable to hide his pallor at realizing their only way across.

A bridge of ragged rope and gray planks cut over the drop, likely the work of _The Palestine's _crew using the remains from their wrecked craft. The group of them passed over it individually, unsure that the rotted thing could hold the weight of more than a few stones. They all overtook the catwalk safely, however, and progressed into the mainland.

Vegetation, finally, began to emerge in the form of dry, yellow grass, sprouting between smooth columns and great rock pans. The first signs of habitation came as they mounted a stone staircase, and came upon level ground.

There was a universal gasp of wonder.

It was as Jekyll imagined the great Mayan temples were in actuality – massive pyramids of block stairs, ancient stone structures that had been worn by time and abandoned by a civilization, having fallen into ruin to haunt as the corpses of great design. The architecture rose from the rock ground and towered around and above them, pyramids innumerable, silent as crypts.

To the left and right, wings birthed into the great wall seen before, disappeared over the rolling horizon to separate the ghost city from the rest of the island. At the end of the city -- but easily seen from any point -- the heart of the wall opened into a massive stone doorway that resembled a snake's gaping mouth. The doors themselves were easily a hundred feet high, made of wood that was the color of dried blood, a crossbar intended as a locking mechanism laying disjointed not far from the fortress's outlet.

The twin doors stood ajar. Through it, they caught the first vision of the peat and flaxen greens of the jungle.

"So, do we knock?" Sawyer joked. The words fell flat on the still air.

Finer details began to come to the doctor as they advanced between the great temples and platforms. There were small collections of blackened sticks that formed the stars of spent fire pits; fish skeletons were skewered on small poles above them. The great wall itself had once been ornamental, with ovals hollowed out and decorated by carvings worn away by time. There were shoots of yellow bamboo thatched together in grills protruding from the crests of the bulwarks, between the massive forms of the temples, out from the stone street way. Mounted on them were decaying skeletons.

"_HELLO?_" They all instinctively ducked as the thunderous sound defiled the silence of the place, echoed from the surroundings to warp into some language somehow menacing and completely unfamiliar to that of the spoken word. Jekyll looked back to see Sawyer, who pointed to the burned wood in explanation.

"That's fresh. If there are survivors of the shipwreck still alive, they're here somewhere." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "_ANYONE HERE?!_"

"Enough." Mina had stopped; her head was tilted to the side, one delicate hand raised. Tom's hands fell from his mouth. In the background, Nemo's men milled over the ruins like worker ants.

"Do you hear it?"

Jekyll began to shake his head, halted mid-gesture. There was another sound to accompany the now faraway cadence of the waves crashing against the rocky shore: a wet ripping, like fabric being pulled apart at the seams.

It touched him, suddenly, what was wrong. Realization came upon him like a much searched for word finally grasped.

Removed, someone had started screaming. He realized distantly that the sailors were running with the fury of men hunted, their faces twisted in ghastly masks of terror. Close enough to taste was the sudden, disjointed cracking of frenetic gunshots.

For the first time in nearly three months, Hyde was silent.

"Edward?"

_"RUN!" _

Pounding feet; frantic, incoherent shouting. The lunatic, animal shrieks of a man being torn apart.

Some hinge in him fractured, and the doctor knew no more.

* * *

Yes! And we come to the thick of it. Also, if anyone can name the island (I think I've inserted enough details, hopefully) they will win . . . my admiration? No cash value, I'm afraid. 

Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated (and are great motivators)!


	6. Chapter 6: This is the Dead Land

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter Six: This is the Dead Land

* * *

The sound was akin to that of a dog tearing into the bloody pelt of a captured rabbit. Tom cocked his ear, edged away from the group, and the subtle sound grew a modicum louder. A few yards of wandering steps, his whole being tuned into the noise; he stepped up onto the base platform of a temple, his hand pressed against the chalky stone for balance. 

He froze.

An elephant was the identification immediately sprung upon him. It was the only thing he'd ever seen that was close to the mass, the height of it, but the instinctive label was wrong in every other way. The thing walked on two immense, black-taloned feet, its body covered with glaucous scales, the muted color gleaming almost wetly in the light. Two small, withered arms were folded close to a pale, yellowish breast. A long tail, its base as thick as a tree trunk's, oscillated in the lazy gate of a pendulum, suspended above the gore-splashed stone of the alley.

Underneath its massive form was the frail figure of a human body clad only in a loincloth, the skin ebony, covered in blood. Pink muscle and ropes of innards erupted from the defiled form, splattered across the ground in violent strata.

The thing did not perceive Tom as came upon it, its head plunging down, stripping the human prey with squirts of clotted blood and the wet ripping din; it threw its head back, gobbled the meat like a crane downing a fish whole.

Tom's breath was caught in his chest, strangling him. Elsewhere, someone screamed.

(_"You a-going someplace?" Tom was crouched at the bank of the river, absorbed in the dogged labor of his task, the boy alternately collecting handfuls of cold mud with his bare hands and scraping at the runny ground with a stick. Huck peered into the already sizable cavity. "China, I reckon."_

_"Naw, I'm making a print."_

_"Animal print? That sorta looks like a bear's."_

_"Don't be a blame fool, Huck. Ain't no bears on the river." Tom sat back to admire his work, frowned as his friend's deft description rang accurate. He set back to work, digging and clearing away the thick, sodden soil._

_"What do we want a print for, Tom? Hain't no need to make one, they're all over . . ." _

_"This ain't no ordinary print Huck." Tom grinned, wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of mud on his tanned skin. He looked at the other boy with eyes dazzling excitement. "In this book of mine it says that 'bout a billion years ago there was these creeturs, and they was a hunnert feet tall, and they stalked all over, fighting and eating each other, just right gobbling each other up for fun (except for the vegetarian ones, I reckon). And then the Lord killed them all off with something called extinction."_

_"Geeminy, what'd He go and do that for?"_

_"I s'pose God went and figured big and mean ain't the best way to go, since they can't fit into a church and all, so He wiped 'em out so we wouldn't be afeared when we came about after."_

_Huck regarded him with some speculation. "Honest injun?"_

_"Honest injun."_

_Huck, with authentic interest, knelt and made to help Tom clear away the mud that kept sliding back into the depression. "So, what we need this for again?"_

_"Becuz." Tom said with adult aggravation, "We're a-going find what made this print and catch it!"_

_"Sure. But say, Tom . . ."_

_"What?"_

_"Didn't _you _make this here print?"_

_Tom regarded his friend with annoyance. "You hain't got no imagination, Huck, you know it?" He turned back to the mud. "Plus, how much is folks gonna pay t'see a real live, genuwyne)_

dinosaur." He whispered.

The beast's head rose. A strip of flesh hung from the fence of massive, hooked teeth like a torn rag. The nostrils flared. It fixed one black eye on Tom and began to turn, mouth opening into a gaping bear-trap to reveal a pink tongue coated in blood.

It let out an earth-shattering roar, and lunged.

* * *

"Skinner, get back in bed. Skinner, you're not to drink that." 

Skinner dropped the smoking stub of his cigarette to the deck, crushed it under his heel, produced another and stuck it between his lips. He struck a match, muttering as he brought the flame up to light the paper's slightly bobbing tip. "Skinner, you can't get off this bloody boat for the first time in three bloody months because, obviously, fundamental liberties aren't valid in international bloody waters."

Admittedly, he'd made the most of the situation at first; shortly after watching the longboat disappear around the bend of rocks, he'd retreated below deck to toast his recovery with a bottle of Nemo's finest Port. About halfway through his personal celebration, one of the crewmen (_wanker_) had ratted him out to the captain.

At least he hadn't gotten all of his cigarettes.

Skinner drew the smoke in, leaned against the railing of the deck. Below his position were the signs of the crew stirring to work: clanging, the sputtering sparklers of soldering torches, the bitter scent of hot metal and the called shouts of men. Glowing orange cicatrix marred the Nautilus's flawless sides like road maps as she was sealed back to her original luster.

Skinner took little notice. His eyes were scouring the clear sky above, where the crown of the island's highest, likely volcanic peak could be seen over the wall of rock before them. The sun hung low in the emerging morning, the bright yellow globe peering between the fork of two black peaks, bathing the surface of the water and the deck in vermilion light. White seabirds, dots in the distance, skated over the gently lapping, glittering waves. The air was cool, and a breeze gamboled at the brim of his black trilby, flapped the hem of his coat against his figure like a rippling sail.

The spot on the deck was a familiar position, one that had been increasingly visited as sleep evaded him, as every moment spent below was troubled by the idea he was missing some sign, once the initial correspondence had failed to make its appointment. However, his restless attendance had proved fruitless. It was the morning of their third day marooned, the second since the small party had set out for foreign shores. In that time, there had been no flare, no returning ship, not a single hint to the welfare of their absent members.

The small tendril of anxiety that had beset the rouge had worked itself steadily into a black, gnawing unease.

Reasonably, he knew anything of the sort was unfounded. Anyone possessing some semblance of brain matter could deduce that there were few creatures, if any, that could stand up against Hyde or devil-Mina; Sawyer, too, was certainly no force to scoff at. The dismissive mantra did little to ease him. The instructions had been clear: if they were to remain overnight, a white flare was to be sent up after sundown signaling all's-well. If there were trouble, one of the crewmen would be on a constant lookout for a red smoke plume in the sky.

Neither had come. Skinner wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"I would be grateful--" A rich voice boomed from behind the thief. He startled, internally cursed himself for the distraction as the captain came up on his side. "—if you would refrain from defacing my lady with this . . . waste." Nemo motioned to the litter of cigarette butts mashed into the deck from the rogue's fretful pacing.

Skinner regarded the other man with an arch smirk, puffed a blue smoke ring in his direction. Nemo brushed it away with an offhand gesture. "Says the chap who dumped 'bout a ton of fine liquor overboard not this time yesterday." Skinner plucked the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it over the ship's side. "Where I come from, that's called _polluting_."

"It was quite harmless, I assure you." The captain's expression was a braid of amusement and vexation. "Everything on my ship originated from the sea; I was merely returning some of her finer fruits." Skinner retrieved a third cigarette from his inside coat pocket. Nemo frowned. "Are you sure that is wise, in your condition?"

"If'n you mean my _current_ condition, which is tired of being ordered about like some yob fresh from sucking his mum's teat, then yes, it is perfect. In fact, this, a bottle of scotch and some buxom tart and I'd be fit for the christing Olympics." Skinner glanced over at the chuckling Nemo as he struck another match. "Well, glad you're amused."

The crying of the gulls retook the forefront, the sloshing sound of the waves against the rocks, the clamor of heavy hammers and rasping of saws from below.

"Their absence has raised my concerns as well." Skinner said nothing, looked back onto the outlook in a somewhat sulking manner.

"Who said I was concerned?" He muttered after a minute of silent smoking. "I figure between Mina an' Hyde—"

"The doctor took none of his potion."

Skinner baulked, sucked in the acrid smoke too quickly and choked on it.

"Wot?"

"Shortly after Mongolia, Doctor Jekyll surrendered all of his 'elixir' into my possession, as well as the materials and tools used in its production." Nemo stroked his beard thoughtfully with one hand, sunlight glinting off the cerulean jewel of his ring. His gaze had wandered to the span of sky above the island. "He left empty handed."

Skinner felt his nerve plummet into the base of his gut like a stone; he regarded the other man in disbelief, shook his head, groaning, "Well, that's bollocks."

Nemo nodded in diversion, continued. "Including the time left of this day, there are only sixty-two hours before the lunar tide. Only myself and Patel—"

"Not very bright sending that chap 'way, I take."

"—are capable of steering the Nautilus." The captain continued hesitantly. "If this opportunity is missed, it will be thirty more days before the seas will give us another chance."

"You're not thinking of leavin' without them, are you?" Nemo's expression remained unreadable, to which Skinner quickly provided, "You think we should go after 'em? A rescue party for the rescue party?"

"I'm not quite sure how to handle this situation." A brief minute of pensive silence, after which Nemo added with a note of certitude, "We will wait until noon. If there is no sign . . ."

"Right." Skinner stubbed the cigarette on the railing, fetched the other man a puckish, grease-painted wink. "Best go make myself pretty, then."

* * *

Hours later, they mounted the ancient stone stairwell, and came upon the flat, ash-colored moonscape of ruins. 

"Cor blimey." Skinner murmured, taking in the massive buildings, the mounted skeletons with a tourist's nonchalant interest. He had washed the greasepaint from his features, unwound the bandages from his body (Jekyll insisted he wear them, since, though his burns were healed, the scar tissue was still delicate and extremely sensitive); barefoot, he strolled down the stone street that parted the city like a scalp's natural line in only his jacket. He had come prepared for a confrontation, as had the others: Nemo's sword glittered in the afternoon light; there was not a pair of hands other than his own without a rifle or pistol.

It seemed all for naught. The ruins looked as if no one had set foot on them for a thousand years or more.

"Scout the area! Report any signs of activity immediately! Keep on vigilant guard!" The gaggle of crewmen who had volunteered to accompany the two League men rushed around Skinner on the street, as if he were a stone breaking the current. The men, their uniforms incongruous amongst the gray rubble, broke up into pairs and surged over the street, down the dark alleyways between the ruins, over the temple's base stones. A number of them started up the steps that lead to the fantastic doorway standing open, creeping along the wall that separated the ghost city from the rest of the island. Their rifles were firm in their grasps, their postures piqued for altercation. The heavy, thundering ruckus if their footsteps defiled the places cemetery ambiance.

Skinner immediately noticed a boulder at the base of the steps. The structure stood at about hip level, the top of the rock smoothed by some hand into a shallow bowl. There was a bamboo club resting at the lip of the rock, its tip studded with what looked to be a vicious thatch of knuckle-sized thorns, the razors held in place by a shrunken wrap of reed and rawhide.

The barbed tip of the club and the mouth of the bowl were coated with dried blood.

Skinner touched the red stained rock, rubbed his fingers to test the texture. "Old," he murmured, diverted his attention to the weapon, which he examined in intense interest. "Looks like someone got their 'ead bashed in by a coupl'a wogs." He glanced back at Nemo. "Er, no offense intended, of course."

"Of course." Nemo replaced his sword in its scabbard with a gallant gesture, the metal making a _shick_ sound as it slid back into the casing, the sound reverberating through the stillness of the crypt. "It seems there are no signs of them, living or otherwise."

Skinner tested the weight of the cudgel in his hands, swung it experimentally over one shoulder. He said conversationally, "You think they might 'ave gone into the jungle?

"Captain . . ."

There was a sudden cry, cut off into a broken choke. Skinner whirled, the club falling down to his side. One of the crewmen close to the wall staggered forward and tumbled like a rag doll down the steps. The rest watched the body in shocked silence as he fell, arms failing, legs flopping lifelessly. He came to rest with a dull thud at Skinner's feet.

He was dead. Blood rolled from his temple, his lips. His neck had been cut ear to ear and the gash leered open a wide, bloody grin, so deep the man was almost decapitated.

The mark was the clean work of a blade.

Another man beside Skinner, having paused in an alley between the structures at the scene, was suddenly wrenched from his feet, his legs kicking uncontrollably, hands groping desperately at his throat as his face purpled and swelled.

"_NEMO_—" Gunfire started wildly, firing blind in the ornate hollows of the wall, in the gloom cast between the ruins as black shadows solidified into the silhouettes of men, their forms passing over the stone like demonic phantoms flirting at the precipice of the physical.

A shift in the air and Skinner whirled, struck out with the club. There was a satisfying cracking of delicate bones, blood sprayed a jettison and a body fell to the ground.

It was a man, dark skinned, clad all in black. Skinner barely had time register the sight before another leaped at him the easy grace and lethal guile of a panther. He swung again, caught this assailant in the gut and sent him staggering, then brought the cudgel down to crack open the exposed skull.

They were emerging from everywhere, stealing out with the silver gleam of a knife, with a strangling chord, dissolving back into the darkness amidst the flint-sparks of gunfire. They struck with the implacable grace of cultured assassins, and soon Skinner found himself almost alone in a street misted with blood.

The remaining group of them fell quickly into a protective circle, backs facing each other as they squared their unseen attackers. Nemo's sword was drawn and running a rivulet of blood. Skinner was naked, the club still in his hand. The crewmen to either side of them fired at the dark forms that circled them like a pack of wolves, their figures flashing about the periphery of their vision like shadows cast from a flickering candle flame.

The court was littered with bodies.

"Thirty or so to one, I imagine. No the best of odds." Skinner couldn't help a morbid grin. "Not quite the response from the natives we was 'oping for, eh?"

"These are not natives." Nemo stated tersely. He lowered his voice so only the few of them would hear. "The first chance you are able, make for the jungle. We will reconvene there and make a plan of attack."

" . . . 'ave you gone daft or some'ing?"

Nemo's face whitened, he thrust an arm out. "They are closing the door._ GO!_"

They broke from each other in an explosion of movement. Skinner abandoned his club so not to be seen, took the stairs two at a time; he hooked his fists together and brought them down on one of the figures in black attempting to push the door shut. He was mobbed. A knife jabbed at him, nicked his cheek, a chord loop found the trunk of his arm and he tore out of its grasp and rent his flesh. He threw himself through the door and across the thatched bamboo bridge (that was steadily rising like a drawbridge under his feet, its moat a smoky abyss below) and vaulted onto the other shore.

The darkness of the jungle met him first, the musty smell of loam, the buzzing and chirping of insects, the calling of unseen beasts. He looked out into the daubed mass of green and brown that was too crowded, too confused to be taken in at once, felt the damp kiss of humidity on his frail, naked skin. The blue sky above had been completely blotted away by green, waxy leaves hundreds of feet above, the twisted, creeper-tangled branches of colossal trees stretching out like open fingers toward the unseen firmament.

It was then that Rodney Skinner realized he was alone.

* * *

Nemo watched as his men made for the jungle, a few others bolted for the stairwell. They were, all of them, cut down like dogs – falling with bodies riddled with the bamboo darts that flew through the air with a sharp whistling shrieks, or otherwise ended by the hands of the men that solidified from the obscurity as if they were constituted of shadow itself. He could not, of course, see Skinner, and wondered if he'd made it into the jungle, which undoubtedly mothered untold horrors. 

Nemo cut through the belly of another attacker, whirled, sliced his sword across an open throat of another. They bled, which was where his concern lie. He struck again.

His sword was parried by a dagger, thrown from his hand; he retrieved his pistol and fired, ended another with a puff of gunpowder. Soon, he was without bullets. He dropped the gun and pulled his kukri from his belt.

Pain exploded in the back of his skull, and he staggered. Another blow, and he fell to his knees.

Blood colored his vision crimson. With fading vision he saw a pair of glittering green eyes emerge from obscurity and regard him with triumph, before darkness reared, and swallowed him.

* * *

Okay, _now_ we get to the thick of it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This chapter ended up being so massive I had to cut it in half, so the next should be up relatively soon. 

Skull Island is from the movie _King Kong_ (1933), property of Edgar Wallace and Merian C. Cooper. The novelization of the movie was published in 1932, and is credited to Delos W. Lovelace, as well as Edgar Wallace and Merian C. Cooper. As you may be able to tell, I have borrowed a bit from the 2005 version, which is property of Universal Studios.

I know the source is too late to be Victorian, but I'm using the setting rather than the storyline, so you'll forgive me, won't you? As always, I am ever thankful for reviews.


	7. Chapter 7: Walking Alone

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Walking Alone

* * *

He emerged from sleep very slowly and in ardent pain, in which he drifted with only the vaguest impression of suspension, of his body gently rocking as if in a hammock touched by a breeze. It was a dull comfort and he basked in it, unmoving, his eyes closed, focused on returning to empty sleep. Sharp, more potent pains prevented such; stinging his chest, his shoulder, accompanied by an omnipresent, rattling click that vaguely reminded him of his pistol's chambers spinning. His brow furrowed, and he shifted. 

_Someone has my Colts. _The notion was immediate and unquestioned. Sawyer's eyes bolted open.

High above, vivacious green spilled over the mouth of the gorge, and beyond even that he could catch the barest glimpses of a blue sky. Below, the collateral rock walls evanesced into a black gloom that glittered with what could be assumed was standing water. He was suspended in empty air hundreds of feet above the ground, tangled in a net of vines that draped between the massive rock cliffs of a canyon, the corded vegetation as thick as ropes and strung like ribbon.

Sawyer saw none of these immediately. His eyes were trained on the face before him.

It was not a human face, too round, too black, shining in an enamel gloss. The head was the size of a pumpkin, connected to a round, bloated, furred abdomen. Six legs were perched against his chest, another two – the rearmost -- working, fiddling, spinning out silken white thread. Eight eyes stared back at him, the two largest fist-sized and black as pitch. The clicking originated from a pair of yellow fangs, three inches in length and broad as a man's finger. Yellow venom dripped down from the kneading incisors to his face, burned the skin of his cheek.

It was a bastardized spider, as big as a sheep.

Sawyer screamed, twisted; the creepers supporting his body snapped and he tumbled gracelessly, stopped after a few feet in distortion. The giant spider clung to him with barbed spindle legs, fell with him; its head reared and barreled for his chest, was suddenly impaled by an outside force and snatched away with a shower of acrid pus.

Sawyer had barely the time to breathe before there was another on him; he could see more scuttling from the pits in the rock walls, across the cords of the vines lacing the air around him. From the gloomy caves in the rock precipice, unseen horrors struck out with jointed tails, thick as tree trunks and topped with stingers, impaling the arachnids and whisking them to darkness. He reached for his belt and found his gun, brought it up and fired, destroying one that loomed above him, another that crouched at his tangled feet, the weight of them snapping the vines and sending him tumbling further down into the abyss to be caught anew by intact vines with jarring force. His pack, somehow, had remained with him and hung by a sinew; he grabbed the flare gun from it and fired up into the air above.

The flare twisted up through the darkness of the gorge, billowing smoke, reflecting red from the rocky, vegetation dotted crags. It exploded in a blinding glow without ever penetrating the tree line.

The spiders flittered away, the barbed tails retreated back to the grottoes, frightened by the light and agitated by the fumes. Sawyer watched them go in relief, and ganced over his shoulder. He could see the base of the gorge – an endless death drop below -- illuminated in the rosy light. It was indistinct, shining, moving: pulsating, scurrying with dark shadows that retreated with the encroaching illumination.

"God." He whispered, looked back up with wide eyes. The top of the chasm was maybe sixty feet above. "How the hell am I going to get out of here?"

His head throbbed terribly, he reached back and touched it; his palm came away wet with blood. Events were coming back to him slowly, memory spotted and murky. He remembered the dinosaur, remembered fleeing in a blind, gazelle-panic into the jungle . . . everything after that was absence. He didn't see Mina or Jekyll, didn't know what happened them (he glanced at the drop below at that, swallowed hard and shook his head in a sharp gesture of negation, of denial), didn't know how he had fallen into the gorge, or how much time had passed . . .

He remained static in a stunned trauma for an unknown period, staring into his bloody hand, dimly trying to regain some control of the situation through the avenue of recall. It was the flare's dying light that brought him back to the present, the sudden flickering movement of the walls. Tom retrieved a second cartridge, loaded the flare gun and fired. The insects withdrew. He had four flares left. He looked up to the cliff wall.

He would have to climb.

"I can't." Sawyer whimpered. The height was too staggering, the terrain too wicked and pitted with the treacherous caves . . . his whole body ached, trembled; there was a watery weariness in the marrow of his bones.

He sat for a moment, staring at it, smothered with dread and self-pity, before retrieving the knife in his pack and setting to work.

It was with the greatest care that he extricated one of the thick vines from beneath him. His hands shook so badly throughout the task he had to stop and gather himself frequently, letting out heavy, tremulous breaths, whispering reassurance to himself. Perched upright on the remaining vines, they quivering beneath him like tightropes; his body trembled as if hypothermic. Stinging sweat ran into his eyes as he cut the rope, tied it around his waist, knotted it once. Tom tested it, considered knotting it again and didn't, pulled himself as far as he could in the opposite direction via the other vines under him. He looked back up at the wall of the chasm, gritted his teeth, then cut the vines his body rested on with a sudden, fierce motion.

The fall was far from controlled, but he swung like a pendulum as desired instead of falling straight down, and he collided with the wall hard enough to knock him senseless. His hands came up though, and caught the mesh of creepers that snarled a fine cover over the rock face.

Sawyer regained himself shortly, and began to climb.

Every ten paces he hooked an arm through the creepers, untied the knot around his waist and re-knotted it, cutting off the excess as he gained on the vine's length. The flare gun was clenched between his teeth, his guns in their holsters and carefully secured so they wouldn't fall down into the fissure, the rucksack across his back, the remaining flares in his pockets. It was tedious, strenuous climbing: halfway up, his arms, shoulders and back started to cramp, and his hands were so blistered and cut he could hardly keep a handhold for more than a few seconds. He tasted blood in his mouth, his flesh ran with sweat even as his throat baked with thirst. He felt himself pausing often, drifting into something like shock, only to catch sight of the shadowed rock walls quivering and resume the onerous climb.

The last flare was fired ten feet below the lip of the gorge, and the white smoke just touched the peaks of the trees. Hands bloody and raw, he caught a handful of grass from the island's level land just as the artificial light was dimming. Tom hauled himself up onto the jungle floor, scraping his heaving chest on the rock as he dragged his dead weight up, form shaking, his eyes running with exhausted tears. Sawyer lay on stable ground, unsure he would ever be able to get up again.

Thirst dragged him to his feet. He wandered aimlessly through the dense foliage darkening with evening, pausing to slump against trees, unmindful of the beasts that could be lurking, watching, waiting, the agent caring only for his baser needs. Finally, he stumbled across a thin, trickling stream.

Tom fell to his knees, plunged his burning hands into the water, bringing them up to drench his face, laughing through cracked, chapped lips despite himself as he devoured the clear, icy fluid. After a moment of gorging he calmed himself, leery of sickness. He pooled the water in his hands and ran it through his hair. Water dripping from his nose, his chin, his blonde eyelashes, a victorious grin graced his features. He heard a grunt, and froze.

Nothing in him wanted to look up. Unmoving, hands suspended before his face, he raised his eyes.

It looked like a giant crocodile, the skin grey and horny textured, though it walked on four legs; it was presumably land based, since the water was little more than a creek. It looked it him with black eyes, water running a rivulet from a long snout of razor teeth.

Sawyer moved very slowly, his hands falling down to his sides were his guns were still holstered, still fastened in place, the rest of his body stock-still. The beast did not wait for him to reach them.

* * *

"Can't believe I gave up fifty years on the screw for this shit." Skinner leaned against the side of a tree, digging out a splinter from his foot with a clumsy hand. He rested back against the trunk, breathing a heavy sigh. Use had left the soles of feet calloused to the likeness of untreated leather, but they were accustomed to the sharp cobblestones of London rather than the wilderness, which seemed intent on poking and scraping and nettling him to death. 

He'd remained staring at the drawbridge as it settled upright against the fortress's embrasure, leaving a gaping canyon between him and the ghost city. He could hear nothing, could see no sign to the fate of Nemo.

"Prig." Skinner muttered, pushed himself from the trunk, taking not a moment more to linger. Lingering threatened that the severity, the abject hopelessness of the situation would catch him like a black thundercloud, and he walked to stay ahead of it, kept with action to avoid deliberation. Assessing his circumstances would only bring the blatant realization that he had no supplies, no way of contacting or returning to the Nautilus, and if the ambush from earlier was any sign, it was likely the others . . .

Skinner tried to avoid thinking as much as possible. It tended to complicated things. A thief relied on his gut much more than his brain, and his gut was instructing him to keep moving.

He picked his way amongst the recumbent creepers with care, pushing aside dense, waxen leaved-shrubbery and clutches of bamboo to clear his path, fumbling as the air around him grew darker. He was following the chasm that separated the city from the body of the island, tracking the barricade's grey battlements through the spread of opaque greenery, hoping to perhaps find another way into the city. So far, there had been nothing.

There was a constant sort of twilight beneath the trees of the jungle, though he had the idea that it was coming on night. The cries of animals and birds as they cajoled, keened, shrieked from above, all around was growing in intensity, evolving into a chaotic, discordant symphony. He was, not for the first time, thankful for his invisibility.

Skinner emerged quite abruptly from the tree line, the foliage having halted for no discernible reason. He stumbled into the meadow off guard, onto the bed of silken grass that spread in a wide pan, then tapered away into ragged cliffs that overlooked a deep valley laden with smoky fog. A river, deep and quickly flowing, cut along side of the tree line, disappeared in a twisted stencil into the deeper recesses of the jungle. The sun was setting behind him, and it flushed the landscape with a ruddy glow.

"Christ." He muttered, having crossed to peer over the cliff, standing on the river's sharp bank, distractedly looking for the place the water flowed into the rock and hence underground, since there was no waterfall. He reached down, splashed his face with the cold water, and sat on the sun-warmed stone. He was tired; his muscles ached. Short sojourns about the ship was the most he had taken in the previous months, unwilling to admit under Mina's piercing gaze, Jekyll's knowing – _annoying_ – tut-tuts that it was all the atrophied muscles of his body could handle, having gone so long without significant movement while he was laid up and recovering. Presently, he was feeling sore but somewhat exhilarated with the sudden freedom.

The sun very quickly went down, and the darkness was absolute. The day was hot and sultry but the night was warm and sweet, and he remained for a while, may have even dozed a bit. When he recovered himself, the moon was up but hidden by cloud cast. He was overtaken with a new sense of urgency.

"Nemo's dead or worse, everyone's missing, and I'm enjoying the bloody weather." Body groaning in resistance, Skinner gathered himself to his feet, turned back the way he had come.

A sudden, warm breeze swept through the small field; the leaves rustled and soughed in hushed echoes. The cries of things unseen were amplified by the gesture, and the jungle appeared to suddenly come to life. The air charged, the river flowed as ichor in some pagan ritual of spirits concealed, and Skinner was awed by the sudden, phantasmagoria quality of his surroundings.

The moon surfaced from behind the clouds, and it was as if a curtain had been drawn back. Instantly the field was illuminated with limpid light, light that reflected silver from the individual, dewy blades of grass, the waxen leaves, from the creepers that swung gently in the wind. The bubbling river became a rush of liquid metal amongst stones that resembled sun-bleached skulls. An ancient altar, long abandoned, crumbled at the edge of the grassland.

A figure stood across from him, a dark silhouette in a field of lustrous white.

"Mina?" A disbelieving smile overcame Skinner's mouth and he stepped towards her, calling, "Thank God, Mina. Nemo—"

His pace slowed, stalled. It was undoubtedly she: the same figure he had memorized with licentious pleasure, dressed in a familiar maroon dress, her countenance cast in darkness, hands open, limp at her sides and pale as milk. The sudden, intense splash of her color was mesmerizing, a pinprick of blood against a wintered canvas.

His call, however, had elicited no response. Mina stood as if carved from ivory.

"You alright, lovey?" He implored, taking another tentative step. The crepuscular darkness of the night, interrupted by the sudden moonlight had served to dazzle him, and his eyes adjusted slowly to absorb the details. With it came a sudden, smothering dread, an overwhelming sensation of wrongness. Her dress was soiled with mud, torn at the hem. Her usual decorous bun was undone, hair shining a red, ribbed cascade over her shoulders; closer inspection revealed the tresses matted, stuck with twigs and leaves.

Her mouth was stained.

_Lipstick_, he rationalized instantly, his head spinning, buzzing, and he groped instinctively for the memories of emerging with women from closets, alleys, bedrooms with their lipstick in a similar fashion: smeared about their lips, chins and cheeks, their mouths swollen from wanton friction.

But the color . . . the color was far too ostentatious for a spinster like Mina . . .

With unearthly grace Mina took a step forward, and it seemed as if she were four paces closer in the span of an instant. Skinner retreated in automatic response, stumbled with the sudden motion, his mind rolling lazily in fog. His limbs felt weighted, like blocks of lead. His mind reeled in a drunken carousel.

The moonlight washed over her fully, and against the colorless alabaster of skin, her eyes reflected scarlet, lusterless and flat, as if he were looking into the open eyes of a corpse.

"Mina, love . . ." His dry tongue flickered out over his lips. " . .if this is about that bit of fun in Mongolia . . ."

_She can see me. _The thought drifted on him, and at first he wasn't sure of the truthfulness when substantiation was sluggishly supplied. Whenever he was without the crutch of greasepaint, his companion's eyes invariably flickered over the apparent emptiness where his face was, as if they were blind men, instinctively searching for some spot to fixate their gaze.

Those feral red irises were trained on him just as surely as if he had been as visible as she.

Another step taken with impossible, unearthly grace, and the space between them was cut in half. Skinner couldn't move; he couldn't bear to tear his eyes from hers, from the form that glowed achingly beautiful in the lunar light, from the countenance that was flushed, voluptuous, smoldering with supernatural allure. The sounds around him had tapered away: the river's chuckling, the calls of the night birds, the far away crashing of the sea's heartbeat. His own heart was beating a wild tattoo in his chest with panic; his brain, muddled, failed to register anything more than a base fear overshadowed by a more primal want.

Her cold hand brushed against his naked collar. He felt the whole of her thin body press against his through the fabric of her dress, the hard wires of her bodice digging against his heaving chest. A pitiful whine escaped him, but he made no move to break away. A steel coil of burning desire tightened in his spine, and breath escaped him slow and shuddering. His eyelids dropped to half-mast, though it made no difference. In the pale illumination he could see the wet pearls of her ivory teeth, sharp as daggers, shining amidst a stain of sanguine.

Her hot breath touched him, sweet and moist, defiled by the underlying, alkaline bitterness of blood. He felt her teeth, light as a feather touch, gently scrape the tender flesh of his neck; his pulse beat a thunderous roar against them. He groaned, trembled.

A single rifle report, in the far distance. Mina paused. Skinner opened his bleary eyes, raised his head like a man waking from a dream. He blinked, frowned.

"Mina?"

Her face warped into a grey, Greek mask of wrath. It pulled in an ugly, horrible angle, her lips peeled back from her incisors with a wildcat's screaming hiss, and she plunged her mouth to his jugular.

In an automatic, thoughtless gesture, his arm came up to meet it. Her teeth sunk deep into the flesh, blood erupted around the invading mouth; crimson ran from seeming thin air. A scream exploded from the invisible man, as if he were startled by the pain that served to galvanize him from the glamour's raptured murk.

Skinner punched Mina in the face with his free hand.

He knew she was much stronger than he in her demonic state, and attributed the way her body lurched backwards to the ill-anticipation of defiance. She fell back, taking a sliver of his arm with her.

He turned and ran. He felt the rake of her talons on his back just as the ground crumbled out beneath his feet, and he was plunged into a freezing, airless darkness.

* * *

Blood splattered across Sawyer's face. The crocodile-monster dropped lifelessly, half of its head reduced to a gaping crater. 

"My God!" Stood revealed by the falling beast was a man illuminated in a spot of moonlight, his clothes little more than tattered rags, skin tanned, blistered and filthy. He openly goggled at Sawyer through unruly dark bangs. The barrel of the rifle dropped to his side, and the stranger took a hesitant step forward. "Are you English?"

* * *

Oh, gosh, this is getting exciting! I don't think I've ever enjoyed writing a story as much as I do this one. Next chapter: The fates of Nemo and Jekyll . . . I believe. I haven't worked out all the schematics of order yet, so bear with me. 

My most heartfelt thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! Reviews are always welcome and are most appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8: Of Insidious Intent

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Of Insidious Intent

* * *

It was the smell that first lead him to conclude the chamber as subterranean, the ubiquitous, damp odor of an open grave, so thick it seemed to lay over him like a heavy, smothering pall. It was to this he awakened. Despite his corporeal form -- which felt leaden, his mind fogged with a sharp knot of pain and the overpowering fetor of the room -- his senses were alive, alert in recognition of surroundings unfamiliar. It was this awareness, removed from the commonplace pains of the body, that registered his weapons gone by their vanished weight at his belt. His jacket, too, had been removed. When the silence continued as his mind gained ground in wakefulness, he chanced to open his eyes, and studied his surroundings through the veils of his dark lashes. 

He was lying on his back. The ceiling was vaulted, lined with white stone and bamboo beams cracked with age, pervaded by infiltrating roots that hung like tawny snarls of hair. From the corner of his eye he perceived the walls of the vast chamber, they composed of the same stone as the ceiling and in the same state of fractured disrepair. Every few meters, the uneven stone planes were interrupted, caved in elliptical apertures. In these ornamental maws withered corpses were framed, the bodies twisted, hands hooked against withered chests, skin pulled tight over faces so disfigured they appeared hardly human. Had it not been for the cloud of cobwebs incasing them, the dancing jaundice light radiating from paraffin lamps would had effectively given the illusion of animation. It was in this aspect that the room resembled the ruins, where his last conscious thought had taken place.

Yet the ancient, decrepit chamber was not uninhabited, as its counterpart had so obviously been. To the contrary, it was finely furnished. Upon the beaten soil floor was a rug of the highest quality: plush, Persian, with intricate designs in crimson and gold. Ornate tapestries hung upon the broken walls, depicting cranes, tigers, serpents, painted with sweeping, watery strokes amongst characters in black. The couch he lay upon was low to the floor, upholstered in the finest quality silk. A table of ebony inlaid with ivory was before him, and upon it burned a single stick of incense, billowing forth a pencil stream of smoke in a phantom ballet. It touched him, and his mind trembled. It was not the smell of a long-lost home, but the richness of the scent possessed a haunting quality far closer to that than the sooty London streets.

"These catacombs run the entire extent of the island, spreading from the city like roots from a tree." The voice was low, sibilant, emerging from the comparative gloom of the chamber to dissolve within it just as seamlessly, without echo. Had it not been for his steeled nerves, the sudden intrusion would have startled him. "It is the most hospitable place I have found in this wilderness, far removed from her savage children."

He did not answer, remained still in the guise of sleep. The action was met with a derisive chuckle.

"You do not know of me, Captain." The smooth voice continued as the source emerged from the fluid shadows. "But I know of you."

The figure was tall, sinewy and skeletal, dressed in yellow robes that seemed to glide around his movements rather than rest on the frame. His complexion was olive, the bones of his skull prominent amongst features narrow and austere, his head hairless but for a thin, neutral-colored down across a peaked scalp. His motions were deliberate, calculative; he approached with slow, sinuous grace and knelt before the small table, position opposing that of his guest. In coming, he had made no sound save the marked speech.

"I am familiar with your people." Nemo returned levelly. He had risen despite his body's protests simultaneous with the man's approach. His host was not one to be fooled, and he would not insult him. "The Si-Fan."

A small smile touched the strange man's aquiline countenance, though he did not immediately respond, instead motioned to the tea tray that was being set before them by a small girl. She did not look up to meet Nemo's inquisitive gaze, set the dishes with fluttery motions before disappearing behind one of the thick curtains that separated the chamber from corridors beyond, leaving no impression but a flash of velvety black eyes.

His host, however, had paid little attention to the servant, instead regarding the captain intensely. With a start Nemo recognized the source of the vague apprehension felt upon the man's arrival, the cause of the unnamed disconcertion: the man's eyes. Striking emerald in color, dissonant with his skin's subdued hue, the pupils were pinpointed into near nonexistence, giving the impression of bewitching, feline phosphorescence. The effect was imperfect; the luminosity of the twin orbs was muted by a thin, cloudy membrane over the iris.

"I offer you a drink." His host continued suddenly, his manner sorely phlegmatic as he gestured with a spindly, spider-like hand, "Anything you wish. Frail creatures as ourselves have no place in this wasteland. Come, you are my guest. I am curious--" he began, taking a handless cup of his own with the air of perfect civility, as if the circumstances common, they old friends, "-- to know what a man of your repute sees to visit this place, especially a man who has been rumored to have been dead for many years. Surely it is not for the topography?"

His host's speech was distinct, alternately rasping and sibilant, the choice of words that of one not speaking in his native tongue. The captain had made no genial move in the wake of his apparent hospitality, instead regarded his host with wariness, though careful to keep his countenance constructed in placidity.

"That would beg the question what you yourself find so alluring, Mr--?"

"Doctor." The man smiled a slow, snake smile. "Just Doctor. My name is not one you would know but will sometime soon be, though I would prefer to keep it from the tongues of the Imperialists until I myself choose it."

"Doctor." The utter absurdity of the situation was overwhelming, and falling upon the humanity of conversation -- however bizarre -- was natural and welcome, the pleasantness with which he was treated disarming. Nemo had found himself also sipping at the bitter tea (eliciting a thin lipped smile from his host); he was seasoned to incredulity, however, and his concession was careful. "Though titles do little to illuminate the matter at hand. Has this no concern with _The Palestine_?"

The doctor appeared pleased. "Ah, a retrieval. The rumors are true."

Nemo's eyebrows drew together. He proceeded prudently, wary of his own slip. "Perhaps you would expound." He said lowly.

"It had come to my attention -- I, a lowly man in my consortium -- word of a so called 'League', one that had managed to upset the investments of my superiors by way of one James Moriarty." The doctor's expression was passive but simpering. "I did not give it credence. Forgive me."

Nemo would not be drawn out. "And you are convinced?"

"The fate of _The Palestine_ could only be of singular interest."

"Then you have laid no claim to her cargo?"

"Rifles?" The doctor's green eyes flashed, his sober expression faltered. "Barbaric. Such weapons denote an errant lack of ingenuity. I will assure that it was by simple fortuity that our fates should collide. Though by luck, on reflection." His subdued manner had recovered flawlessly. "No, I have no interest in arms. This island, however, possesses some of the rarest, most deadly species of insects, plants, reptiles and bacilli. I have come to harvest. A short sojourn, and I will return."

"I saw no ship."

"I require none."

"Then you have slain my men senselessly!" Nemo erupted, eyes glinted like twin fragments of flint. The doctor remained inscrutable.

"It was unfortunate I did not realize you before."

"And why have you brought me here?" Nemo spat acidly, expression livid, "To palaver? To drink?" He struck out; the cup previously in his hand shattered against the far wall with a high, discordant sound that rent the torpid silence.

At that, the doctor remained silent, introspective, though he regarded the captain with an unfailing, reptilian stare. He took a drink, spoke slowly, softly. "I was surprised to find you a member of the Imperial force. You, who was such a champion of the people in your day, you who smote those who sought to oppress the man who could not fight for his own liberty!" For the first time in the conversation the doctor had lost his monotone, growing fervent, his emerald eyes clearing with passion. Just as quickly the expression curdled, his teeth bared in disdain. "I wished not to believe the rumors. And yet here you are before me, a bought man."

"Then this is of your rebellion."

"And more!" The doctor's face inflamed at Nemo's deadpan, wearied expression. His thin, bony hand bent into a fist, which he brought down upon the table with startling force. The porcelain jolted with a gentle tinkling. The incense stick's wilted head of ash fell into a pile of powder.

The doctor's form had become infused with malicious, righteous passion, his chest heaving in ardor. "Have you forgotten how they took what was yours by birthright, how they defiled your country, denounced your traditions barbaric, slaughtered your kinsmen?" He leaned across the table, his voice coming sharper, tinged with mania as spittle flew from his bloodless lips. "How they drove you to the seas and the crimes as a pirate as a last futile resistance to their despotism? Would you wish it upon me and mine as they move to eradicate what they have so deemed 'The Yellow Peril'?"

Nemo's brow had darkened in fury, his hands clenched until the knuckles seared white. "You insult me."

The doctor bared his palms in a gesture of entreaty. "No! I implore you, a great man -- you, a fallen king! -- to remember your struggle and examine these bounds of subjugation! Would you stand against me and my cause, one that is not so different than the one you once claimed to champion?" His tone turned mocking, his mouth into a disparaging sneer. "What compensation offered by the hand of tyrants grants penance for your honor? Your people's freedom? Should I but kill you now to stave the blood of women and children your adopted government would have you bathe in?"

"Enough!" Nemo's face contorted in rage. "I have tried your ways! They are savage, your organization nefarious! You think I do not know you wish not for freedom, but for power? That the liberty of yours would be won by the blood of a thousand more?"

The doctor shook a vehement fist. "There is no other way for it to be ensured than through the iron hand of authority!"

Nemo's expression fell in acrimony. "You are a hypocrite."

"A hypocrite?" The doctor uttered a barking laugh. "From the man who defied all English, until the battle was lost! Who slunk away with his tail between his legs only to lash out with a child's petulance, to destroy the lives and vessels of his oppressors as if it were a herald of final resistance, only to let credit fall with a _sea monster!_ A hypocrite? From he who was without even the courage to assert the culpability of his own villainy!"

"No!" The doctor snapped finally, his voice falling. "No. Mine eyes are opened, and yours are shut. You have forgotten from where you have come! Your isolation has made you callous to the plights of men. Or have you forgotten my thugee, my dacoit bow before the goddess Kali and pray for impending death as you yourself have done!" The doctor rose in violent vehemence, thundered, "Or are you not Prince Dakkar, son of Rajah Bundlekund, nephew of Tippu Sultan, who lost all and fled as a coward? _Who took the name of no man, the legacy of no land to hide from his dereliction! Whose wife and children were slaughtered--_"

"_Silence!_" Nemo bellowed, leapt to his feet, made as if to draw his sword in a paroxysm of rage.

In finding it absent, his hand trembled. His head bowed.

"What would you have had me do, villain?" He whispered after a heartbeat. He looked up at the man with dark eyes misted, his expression wracked with torment, before his gaze dropped to look into his contorted hands. "What else could I have done?"

Before the towering figure of the doctor, he fell to his knees.

The doctor's hand fell to his side, his brow smoothed, eyes once more becoming fogged with the translucent film above a shrewd smile. He crossed to Nemo, lay one claw-like hand upon his trembling shoulder.

"The mistakes of the past are immutable." The doctor whispered softly, consolingly. "Join with me, and make atonement. Regain your title, and your honor, prince."

There was a moment of pregnant silence. Nemo's face flickered, cleared in almost ethereal bliss. With weathered hands he gathered the hem of the doctor's robes, and kissed them.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I will."

* * *

He hunted. 

Their teeth raked his own fragile flesh even as he rend them; his hands shredded their leather hides, stripped the limbs from their moorings amidst dins of high, inhuman shrieking; he felt the rippling power of muscles slacken, become still. His hands came down upon their bones, snapped them like kindling, crushed them between the vice of his iron jaw, felt them shatter as delicate as glass. Blood flowed like water, hot as molten lead. Blood misted the air, sprayed acrid jettisons into the sky. Blood covered him a bastardized placenta; he threw his head back, and roared.

Elsewhere, Henry Jekyll dreamed.

_(Everything was taken care of, then. His will and estate were in order, his servants had been given severance pay and released. All outstanding debts had been paid, along with several contributions to various colleges of medical esteem. The letter was sent. Whether Mr. Utterson chose to believe the amazing story, whether he chose to reveal to the authorities the nature and cause of Mr. Hyde's disappearance and the subsequent suicide of Dr. Henry Jekyll was a decision out of his hands . . . and rightfully so._

_The formula had run out, the imperfect salt was no more. He had attempted, in vain, to try one last experiment in the hope of . . . but it was of no use. He felt the strange, hated prickling that signified the change to come, and had abandoned his tools mid-task to retire in his familiar armchair, wearied and resigned. The foundation notes he had written -- those still legible beneath Hyde's child scribble -- twisted, writhed and blackened within the orange flames of the fireplace. He knew their contents by heart, but the evil they had unleashed would die with him._

_Of that he was sure._

_In resolution, he was strong. He could feel the terror, the rage of what he had begun to think of solely as Hyde -- as opposed to a component of himself -- as the monster began to gain ground, to surface, as Jekyll began to recede as the tingling pangs of the transformation grew stronger. Jekyll gritted his teeth, steeled himself. The letter was written and posted, and that was as much as he could ask for. Yet . . ._

_Adverse to his better judgment he flipped open his pocket watch, whose long spindle hand ticked unfailingly away at the hour. It was strange to think it, inanimate, would continue long after he. He turned his focus, gazed at his own blurry reflection in the silver casing's underside . . . and wished he hadn't._

_His face had changed. Even when he was securely Jekyll his countenance reflected the malignancy, the evil of Hyde, had altered to echo the depravity of his counter-identity's actions. His eyes had taken a black twinkle, his lips a wicked twist. There was nothing terrifically deformed about the face, no bestial malformation that would explain the impression of disgust, of horror in the viewer, but the impression was present nonetheless. His fingers rose, probed the gaunt skin of his face as he flicked the watch shut. For the last view of his features to reveal the ravages of that monster--!_

_The deep bell of the hall clock reverberated through the room, and dread quivered through him. He closed his eyes, curled his fists. It was Hyde's fear. The monster was afraid of nothing but the end of himself, it seemed, and in that Jekyll could find pride. The fires of Tartarus held for him no aversion; as long as Hyde was there with him, Henry Jekyll would burn in Hell for eternity with pleasure._

_The clock was still ringing with its last note as he recovered the phial that stood on the table beside him, uncorked it, brought it to his lips. The smell was sour, the color putrid; he would go as he had lived, with honor-- if not in the eyes of others, than at least in a final declaration of self-assertion._

_He would be Hyde's prisoner no more._

_The tremors of the transformation were overtaking him as he threw back the poison with a single swallow, felt it burn down his throat like fire. There was a clamor in the hall, shouted words, and the door was struck from outside. He fell to the floor writhing in a death convulsion even as his body ruptured with the change, as a final cry tore from his lips, his perceived last thoughts those of triumph._

_And again, his downfall was the underestimation of the evil within himself.)_

Through the odor of blood he caught another, and the dead beast fell from his hands as his attention redirected wholly, his head tipping like a cocked bird's, intent. The scent of gunpowder, of leather, of fear. He breathed twice deeply, snorted. The stench of prey, of . . .

He shook his head like a flustered animal, bared his blood-coated teeth, and started in a furious lope into the depths of the jungle.

* * *

Two weeks of waiting and all I offer is a measly seven pages . . . my apologies. 

And here enters the 'antecedents' bit of the plot, which I hope isn't trying. One of the purposes of this story is to bridge the gaps left between the novels and the movie, and we all love a good back story, don't we? That being said, I can't come close to expressing how much I love writing this. Ah! I'm so excited for the next chapter. . . though I'm not quite sure when it'll be out . . . forgive me. The structure of this story offers some trouble.

The Doctor, as you may already know, is Dr. Fu-Manchu, from such novels as _The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu_ (1913) , and _The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu_ (1916). I thought myself terribly clever in finding him, until I learned he had been used in the first comic. Therefore, I've taken to not referring to him by his name but by his title, in homage, though this does not follow the same story line as the first comic.

Also, to **bloodstoneteres**: Thank you very much for the praise. I can't say I'm familiar with either author (other than in name), but being compared to any professional is a great honor. I hope that the bit with Jekyll, though brief, has come to satisfy your expectations.

Thanks very much to all who reviewed! I'll try to be a _little_ more accurate with my update predictions (I know I'm quite bad), though occasionally it can't be helped.

I always appreciate feedback!


	9. Chapter 9: In this Hollow Valley

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter Nine: In this Hollow Valley

* * *

He struggled, sputtering and choking, to drag himself from the putrid water of the marsh, grasping handfuls of creeper to pull himself from the foaming, fetid swamp water onto more stable ground. He staggered up, dragging his feet through ankle deep, sucking mud and spongy moss until the ground solidified beneath him. There he dropped prostrate, gasping raggedly, just to prop himself up on one arm and retch noxious water until his stomach gave nothing but clear bile. 

"I wonder if they would consider that my resignation." Skinner rasped, let out a hoarse, hysterical laugh, which quickly dissolved into a hacking cough. He dropped onto his back, felt a burst of sudden, hot slickness. He lay for an exhausted moment, then heaved himself up to investigate.

"Oh, wonderful." Skinner croaked, snatched an enormous leech from his arm with a gush of blood and flung the membranous corpse back into the water with a satisfying plop. There was another on the back of his calf, numerous on his chest, and, disturbingly, he could see through his own body to observe them clinging on his back, a few having burst when he collapsed. The fact that they were beginning to gradually disappear as they gorged on his tainted blood was exponentially perturbing, and he scrambled to tear them off. "If this isn't just the rummest spot on God's green Earth . . ." He threw the worms back from where they had come in handfuls. The water where they landed had begun to roil with activity, unseen fish glancing the waters surface to gobble them up. What might have disconcerted Skinner before served only to further irritate him.

"Yes, 'ere's breakfast, you whoring lot—"

The water exploded in a geyser, and an immense silver, whipcord neck erupted from the marsh surface, a three foot long fish in the rearing monster's compact jaw; the giant tossed the fish back and swallowed the wriggling thing whole. The invisible man had screeched with surprise, jumped to his feet and retreated a dozen yards. He stopped once discovering himself shunned, and watched the massive snake creature in astonishment as it hunted for more of the fleeing fish.

"Christ and all 'is angels." He gasped. "This isn't real. Can't be real. I'm going to wake up, and this is all going to 'ave been some bloody awful opium dream." The pain in his arm contradicted his theory. Skinner pressed a hand over the sluggishly bleeding, shredded flesh, looked up at the cliff from where the river had swept him. It was by some miracle the ground of the bank had given out beneath him and slipped him out of Mina's grasp, more so that he and had managed to keep himself from drowning in the torrential current. His eyes traced over the crumbling white altar that could be seen high above the strewn flora. There was no sign of the woman. For whatever reason, she had not followed him.

The memory of the assault made him shudder, a violent, wracking motion once begun only a physical stranglehold could halt, and he wrapped his arms around himself in a weak attempt. He knew he often tried Mina's patience (though in all fairness, it was just in the sport of fun), but he never would have imagined . . .

"There's something wrong with 'er." Freezing despite the humid air, still coughing, ready to drop, he turned away from the scene of the monster feeding and into the hopeless desolation of the jungle. A singular, foreign scent stopped him, sent his eyes rapidly scanning the night sky.

Smoke.

* * *

Tom had barely managed to stagger to his feet before he found his hand enveloped in the fervent embrace of two callused, sun-withered palms. His arm was pumped with such ferocity that his whole body pitched with the motion. "By Jove, I thought no one would come! What ship are you with? Were you sent by the Queen? You've come looking for the--" The man dropped Sawyer's hand abruptly, flushed, blotted his palms on his ragged trousers nervously. "Forgive me, sir, but nearly two months in this savagery seems to have entirely stripped me of my manners. Charlie Marlow, Captain of the ill-fated _Palestine_. And you--?" 

The adrenaline of the past few hours having finally tapped out, Sawyer regarded the other man in a sort of daze, absently fisting the clotted reptile's blood from his face with an almost child gesture. Marlow waved a hand, moved to sling his own rifle more securely over his shoulder. "Later, of course. You've had quite a shock." He beamed, and there was the slight glistening of tears in his eyes. "It's just such a relief; I never thought I would see another Englishman again. I—" He shook his head, swiped a hand brusquely across his face. "Are you alone?" He glanced back and forth, some of levity going out of his tone and posture as he scanned their surroundings.

"No--well, yes, I guess. . ." Tom cradled his head in one hand, let out a quavering sigh. "Yeah, I'm alone."

A sympathetic hand was placed on his shoulder. "Come. You can rest back at camp."

Camp was a blessedly short hike downhill, where the small stream collided with a swiftly moving river that curved serpentine into the lowlands. Massive bushes and ferns rendered black by the night crowded over the muddy bank to dip their drooping branches into the steady flow; trees towered with both straight, moss-covered trunks and those mottled and withered, their vast roots systems erupting in gnarled contortions from the ground in perilous footholds. Over the river could be seen the thin artery of blackness that was the sky, stars bright pinpricks of light shining through the dappled breaks in the opaque canopy. In the moonlight, the scene was distressingly beautiful; Sawyer had not the energy to appreciate it, and trekked tiredly after Marlow, who was hacking through the foliage with a time-dulled, rusted machete. The other man may have been speaking. Sawyer couldn't hear him over the racket of frogs crying at every imaginable frequency.

The tree that Marlow led the American to was easily the largest he had ever seen, three hundred feet high, with a trunk wide enough to house several hansom cabs comfortably. A grotto had formed beneath the massive trunk where the ground had shifted and collapsed, leaving a gaping maw at the base amongst a web of naked buttress roots. There were palm leaves set across the entrance in careful camouflage; behind them, a piece of tattered sail was hung. Marlow moved them aside, beckoned Tom to enter. His head pounding like a rotted tooth, shaking with hunger and exhaustion, the agent dropped down between the thick, tangled roots without word.

Tom halted in the darkness of the place. The stranger secured the entrance behind them, moved with familiarity through the black to stoke a smoldering pile of red cinders back to life.

In the red light of the fire, Tom could see that the cavern was about the size of a large room, the base of the tree six inches or so above his head. Wreckage from _The Palestine_ was everywhere: ragged boards had been salvaged and used to block holes to the outside, save a singular orifice to allow the smoke to escape. Dented pewter pots and silverware were stacked against one wall, as well as a modest pile of blankets and the tattered strips of sails. There were tins of coffee, of tobacco, and a pile of coal adjacent. Marlow went to this and tossed a few of the rocks onto the fire. Standing against the opposing wall was a mustered line of rifles, their wood paneling gleaming in the soft light, edged by boxes upon boxes of ammunition. Tom registered these surroundings vaguely, as well as the notion he was being spoken to, but could not bring his mind to concentrate. Mechanically, he collapsed down on the ground next to the fire, and almost immediately the world around him faded into gray.

An indeterminable amount of time had passed when he was finally able to regain his senses, his whole body stiff and sore from exertion realized, his arms cramped so badly he could hardly move them. The fire crackled merrily, his face had grown flushed from its heat. A blanket had been laid over him. He sat up groaning, his back flared with knots of pain; he registered dumbly that his guns and pack had been taken from him, then started in frantic alarm.

They were in a neat pile along with his jacket out of the fire's proximity. Marlow was sitting across from him almost meditatively, smoking a pipe and stirring at a pot that dangled from a tripod over the fire; whatever was cooking smelled wonderful. The man's distant eyes brightened when he saw the agent roused. A cup of weak coffee was almost immediately pushed into Sawyer's hands.

"I trust you're feeling better?" Marlow said gently.

"Aw, gee." Tom rasped, and blushed. He ran a hand through his hair awkwardly, found both his head and hands had been washed and bandaged. If possible, he grew even darker. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Mister. My Aunt Polly would tan my hide if she knew I'd been so rude. Charlie, right?"

"Marlow, if you would." The man chuckled with good humor. "And I quite know the feeling." Tom offered his hand, and looked over his rescuer for the first time.

His race was nearly indeterminable with the ground-in bronze tarnish of the jungle, his countenance severe and emblazoned with dark, intelligent eyes and a wide, genial mouth. His hair was black and fine as horse hair, shaggy and long; his paltry beard flecked with gray attested to middle age, though the carved lines of his face and generally haggard appearance made him seem years older. His clothes were well worn, his shirt discolored, his boots still serviceable but coming apart, the figure underneath them lean to the point of malnourishment.

"Tom Sawyer." Tom said as the man took his hand gently, careful of his injury. "I can't thank you enough for what you did back there. If not for you I'd be gator-food right now."

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Sawyer."

"Just Sawyer. If saving my life doesn't make you my friend, I'm not sure what would." Sawyer said lightly while taking a sip of the coffee, simultaneously sweeping the small room with his eyes. He bit his lip. "You haven't happened across anyone else, have you? A woman, with red hair? Or there's this other guy, kind of nervous, thin as a rake?"

"You are the first person I've seen in more than a month, Sawyer." But Marlow's eyes had brightened at the words, "How did you come to this wretched place? You are with a rescue party, I trust? Then you must have been sent by the British Authorities . . . or was your ship passing?"

Sawyer hesitated for a brief instant. The question posed an interesting narrative. Marlow had given him every reason to trust him, but the episode with Dorian had left the agent tempered in his affinity with strangers, not to mention the circumstances of his misadventure would rather ensure a conviction of lunacy rather than any secured confidence. His eyes scoured the artifacts of the ruined ship briefly, then came to rest on Marlow's worn, hopeful countenance. Sawyer began to speak slowly. "We were sent on a transport mission, and came across the Palestine's wreckage by accident. The island wasn't charted or near any familiar ship routes, so we decided to see if there were any survivors."

"What company are you with?" The question was sharply probing, but Sawyer answered without hesitation.

"The Royal Navy."

Marlow's eyebrows came up, his tone cool. "I mean no offense, but you hardly have the look of a sailor about you. And from your accent I would label you distinctly American."

Sawyer was quick to counter. "I've been working with a special coalition to try and improve relations between countries, and come to a diplomatic resolution for the current situation in the East. America, despite the current trend toward isolationism, decided to put her two cents in."

"Where were you headed?"

Marlow's manner had grown inquisitive in a way that made Sawyer uneasy. The whole conversation by then had taken on the thinly veiled rapport of an interrogation, and Sawyer found himself embellishing the half-truths with complete conviction, his proverbial hackles raised in guard. It was dawning on him that despite the man's hospitality, he knew next to nothing about this Marlow person, and the man's manner had quickly devolved from gracious to suspiciously demanding, his weathered hand resting on the butt of his rifle. Sawyer's own guns were not in immediate reach, and he internally cursed. "Shanghai. There's a council going to be held in the next few weeks, a parley between the allies and the Chinese government."

"Neither would I take you as a politician."

"Aw, shucks." Tom rubbed the back of his neck, grinned sheepishly in a liar's practiced play while internally strategizing how to reach his guns before the other man could get off a shot. He should have expected something like this; the poor bastard had been alone for so long . . . "I'm just a bodyguard. I never had much of an interest in this political mumbo--"

There was a sharp click. Tom looked up, and found himself staring down the black eye socket of a rifle barrel. He paled; his tongue flickered over his lips. His eyes flashed over to his pistols, resting less than a foot away.

"I can see you are well versed in current events, but the truth, now, if you please." Marlow said in a frosty tone. Sawyer's sore fingers flexed, his jaw tightened; his bandaged, empty hands settled limply in his lap.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He said after a minute, dragging his gaze back to the other man. Marlow's eyes had taken a dangerous glint, his mouth narrowed into a white seam.

"Had you told me two months ago I would be Robinson Crusoe on some Darwinian nightmare I wouldn't have believed you either. But I seem to find myself in a rather unprejudiced state at the present." The rifle's tip quavered, and something like desperation flickered through the weary man's countenance. "Please don't make me shoot you, Mr. Sawyer. It would kill me to do it."

Sawyer puffed out a heavy breath, and he managed a winning smile. "Well, I can tell you that your arm is going to get tired holding that gun up, because it's a hell of a long story. I have trouble keeping it straight, and I was there." Seeing Marlow unmoving, he put up his hands defensively.

"Okay, okay. I didn't exactly lie. I am part of a sort of . . . coalition, and I really was sent . . well, not _here_ . . . by the British Government, and we did stumble across the wreckage and come looking for survivors."

Sawyer hesitated, mind racing for a strategy. He'd always prided himself in being a first class liar, yet Marlow had seen through his act easily, and was obviously suffering from some solitude-induced paranoia or dementia. He apparently had some aptitude in judgment, and Sawyer wasn't willing to take a bullet in the interests of glossing over some of the more unbelievable components of how he had come to the island. The worst that would likely come from the truth was Marlow believing Sawyer to be some harmless lunatic, or so the agent hoped.

But where to begin? Bond's office? Mongolia, or the first encounter with M? The agent wrestled with himself for close to a minute. Marlow was growing uneasy, the barrel still trained on Sawyer's brow, and just as he was about to speak the American began.

"It all started almost a year ago. At the time, I had been working for the United States Secret Service for more than a year, having been recruited straight out of military enlistment. I joined because I wanted to see the world and have adventures; my Aunt Polly was madder'n a wet hen because I'd given up a full scholarship to Harvard to do it. Anyways, my buddy Huck Finn and I -- Huck had joined up too, mostly because he didn't have any academic interests, and we had done about everything together since we were knee-high to a grasshopper -- had gotten wind of a fella named M, who was supposed to be some European fanatic and whatnot, and were on his trail. No one had taken either of us seriously because we were still yardbirds, and arrogant as hell. We didn't even take ourselves seriously either, but we eventually stumbled across his gang." Tom paused a moment, swallowed thickly, and when he spoke again his voice trembled. "I . . . it's hard to talk about. My pal Huck got killed, and I went AWOL looking for the sonofabitch responsible.

"That's when I met the League." Sawyer recounted their exploits of the past months for close to an hour, and after the first few minutes Marlow's gun drooped, the hammer thumbed back into safety. His expression went from icy intensity to curious mystification to outright disbelief, and by the end of the story the man was regarding Sawyer as if he had misjudged the severity of the agent's blow to the head. Sawyer took a sip of the lukewarm coffee, concluded:

"Anyways, I got knocked around pretty bad and the past day is kind of a blank. But Mina and Jekyll are out there somewhere, and you can believe me when I tell you if anyone could survive here, it's them. And we have to get back to the Nautilus--"

"The Nautilus." Marlow broke in suddenly, shaking his head with a small smile. "I've grown up with stories of Captain Nemo, Sawyer, told yarns of him myself on long voyages when the nights were placid and long. He is a myth. And even if he is not, the addled testimony of the survivors of 'Lincoln Island', at least, puts him many years deceased." His smile was good-natured, however. "I was always one for a good story, but . . . demons? Scientific transformations? Invisible men?"

"Don't forget dinosaurs and giant bugs." At that Marlow laughed out loud.

"You remind me of someone I used to know." Marlow said with some fondness after a moment, as he made to pack and light his pipe, the gun forgotten at his feet. "I--"

There was a sudden, sharp rustling.

Inside of the grotto the chaotic symphony of the jungle night was hushed, still perceptible but unobtrusive. The crunching, however, had been close, and Marlow abruptly broke off, held up a hand gesturing for Sawyer not to speak, his head cocked to listen. Another sharp sound, a twig snapping, and the man sprung into swift action. A pot of soil was poured over the fire, leaving nothing but a red blush in the small cave. From the shine of the light, Sawyer could see Marlow's gun was once again in his hands. The agent had retrieved his own pistols and held them tightly, the two of them barely breathing, still as death, waiting.

The rustling continued, circled around the base of their tree, followed by the scraping whisper of their palm leave concealment falling, a crunch as it was trampled. The white sail curtain twitched. Sawyer cocked his guns.

The sheet fluttered as if caught by sharp draft, revealing nothing but the flushed light of the coming dawn. Marlow's face twisted in confusion in the low illumination, and the gun's stance faltered.

"Sawyer?" Called a blessedly familiar, disembodied voice. "Is that you, mate?"

* * *

With the golden light of the dawn washing over the peaks of lush forestry, she retreated into the stale, cobwebbed darkness of the stone structure, and into repose. 

_(The bedroom was silent, the cradle beside the bed creaking slightly with its continued steady motion, the hushed whisper of a draft soughed against the room's fabrics with a sound like willow leaves. She was drifting back to sleep when she realized the coverlet beside her was folded back, the white sheet exposed beneath, the bed rumpled and empty._

_  
"Jonathan?"_

_  
The window was open, and the curtains billowed like fairy skirts in the cold wind; his shock-white hair shone like strands of flaxen ivory in the flooding moonlight, his pale skin echoing the ashy hue of a corpse. Only half dressed, he was statuesque in a stilted pose as he peered out the open window, into the night. "Jonathan, what is it?"_

_  
She rose slowly, slipped from their shared bed, touched her feet to the cold floor and flinched. Sleep was gone from her mind, and as she his retrieved his dressing gown she looked into the rocking cradle with stifled apprehension. It was unneeded. Quincy slept soundly. _

_Jonathon was watching her. His hollow eyes possessed a febrile, black glitter; his pale lips trembled._

_  
"Do you see it, Mina?" He breathed as she came up on his side and draped the robe over his naked, shuddering shoulders. "Do you see it?"_

_  
"What, Jon?"_

_  
His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. A whispery laugh escaped him, the horrible sound like dry leaves rustling. _

_  
"The fog is coming in."_

_  
She looked out. Their trim lawn had become a living pool of wispy grey, the mist congealing at the base of the towering elms that spotted their home's landscape, shrouding the familiar yellow stone of the cathedral so only the building's faint silhouette was visible. The sight was not an uncommon one._

_  
"Come back to bed, darling." Mina closed the window, drew the curtains with curt gestures, and turned to lovingly take his hands. They were like ice. Baby Quincy had come awake, and began to squall in his bassinet. _

Less than a month later, Jonathan Harker lay cold in his grave.)

* * *

Charlie Marlow is from the novels _Heart of Darkness_ (1899), _Lord Jim_ (1900), _Chance_ (1913) and the short story "Youth" (1898) by Joseph Conrad. 

**rhosyndu: **It is rather pit-like, isn't it? Thank you for the praise, and I'm very glad you're enjoying it!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! This was more of a transitional chapter, as the next will likely be, before we head back into action. Also, if anyone was wondering about Marlow's strange behavior, it will shortly be explained. I would give a clue of what next chapter's composition will look like, but to be honest I don't have any concrete notion. That said, I'll have it out as soon as possible.

I always love hearing from readers!


	10. Chapter 10: Last of Meeting Places

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 10: In this Last of Meeting Places

* * *

To Marlow's credit, he neither shrieked nor fainted at the abrupt manifestation of the apparently sourceless Cockney voice. His gun slipped from his suddenly lifeless grip; he fumbled and managed to catch the rifle before the butt could strike the ground and set it off. "What madness is this?" He gasped, tentatively groping out with his free hand to the ostensibly unoccupied entrance like a blind man. "Light trickery? A spirit?" His fingers bent as they encountered an obstacle where none appeared to be, and in wonder his hand flattened against the unseen plane.

" 'ave we met?!" The blood drained from Marlow's thin face, his dark eyes bulged in his skull. He violently recoiled, his thick swallow audible as he rubbed the offending hand on his tunic absently.

"My God . . ."

"Let's keep our 'ands to ourselves, shall we?" The discarnate voice griped. Muted footfalls resounded through the small grotto as ghost footprints appeared in the packed dirt floor, advancing into the room. "Nice little place you've got 'ere, mate. Not quite Kensington—"

"Skinner?" Sawyer blurted finally, his guns having mechanically lowered to rest back in the hostlers at his hips. The relief at hearing the familiar voice was eclipsed by more staggering dread and confusion. "Skinner, what are you _doing_ here? You're supposed to be back on the ship with Nemo—"

"Bloody nice way to greet a chap. Especially since I've come to rescue you're sorry hide, though that noble venture devolves rapidly into a long and terribly depressing story . . . my God it is good to see you." Tom felt the cool presence of a hand at the nape of his neck and turned to where he thought the invisible man to be, his eyes scouring the spot vainly. "This is quite the island, eh?" A soft chuckle, cut off by a brief, abrasive cough. "You want to introduce me to your friend before 'e keels over?"

Marlow was unmoved from where he had retreated, his countenance equal parts aghast and stupefied, his coloring bone white. The rifle was still clutched in his wildly shaking hands, the muzzle waving in a trembling, frenzied gate from floor to ceiling. Sawyer jumped forward, his hands raised, and the quivering barrel was whirled to aim level with his chest.

"Easy there, Marlow." Marlow made a low clicking noise deep in his throat, pointed weakly to the empty space from which the voice was emitting. "Just take it easy." Reaching a hesitant hand forward, Tom grasped the gun barrel and turned it from him; Marlow allowed himself to be relieved of the weapon. Sawyer thumbed the hammer back into safety before setting the gun against the wall, then turned to lay a hand on Marlow's thin, quaking shoulder. "Remember, I told you about him. This is Rodney Skinner—"

"—gentleman thief." Skinner added with listless enthusiasm. Marlow remained static for a moment, his eyes wandering over the space wildly, looking like a cornered rabbit about to bolt.

One quivering, open hand extended.

"Charlie Marlow." He gasped. "Captain of_ The Palestine_." The gaunt man jolted as his hand was grasped, but closed his fingers around the apparent fistful of air. He allowed his arm to be guided in a gentle rise and fall.

"Good to meet you, Charlie." Marlow did not correct the invisible man, but offered a tentative smile. A glance at the agent beside him, and the expression broke into a disbelieving, overwrought grin.

"By Jove." He laughed skittishly. "By Jove, I do believe I've finally lost my mind."

"Join the bloody club." Marlow leapt as his back was thumped amiably. " 'ave you got anything to drink? And maybe a bandage, I seem to be bleeding again."

A few minutes and the fire was coaxed back into a healthy glow, they scattered around it, drinking weak coffee from chipped cups and listening to the mounted pot begin to boil. From the floating ribbon of bandage, Skinner was revealed as seated against the wall, slowly winding the white strip over his lower arm. The silence was charged, and Tom chewed his lip.

"Skinner—"

"Give me a minute, mate." Skinner admonished wearily. The tin cup rose, tipped, dark fluid rolled a clean line through the vacant air, evanescing before it completed its obvious track to the dirt floor.

"I'm sorry, Sawyer, I . . ." Marlow had hardly wrenched his eyes from the invisible thief's display since his arrival, but with the sudden expulsion he jerked his focus to rest on the younger man, and regarded him with an expression that was harried, but nonetheless relieved.

"I think I would have been more concerned if you had believed me." Sawyer said with an understanding shrug, a humorless smirk. "It's sort of something you have to see to believe."

"No pun intended, of course." Skinner added, broke off into another discreet cough. Sawyer frowned. The compulsory query was deferred by Marlow's fierce headshake.

"You don't understand." The sailor continued with a note of exasperation, and he raked his fingers through his unruly dark hair. "It seemed terribly unlikely you would be with them, and I at first thought you may have escaped, but I couldn't take any chances--"

Sawyer's brows drew together and he raised a hand against the feverish flood. "Wait, slow down. What are you talking about?"

Marlow let out a heavy, quavering sigh, and stared down into his bitter coffee. When he began again, it was with the slow, calculated lilt of a seasoned narrator. "When my bark was procured by the government for purposes undisclosed, I was demoted to first mate. One hardly uses crates to carry coal, but it wasn't of any particular concern to me -- this was to be my last voyage under my current contract. Other than the soldiers who were to discreetly accompany us, I had a crew of fourteen men, their nationalities varying from English to Norwegian. We were not delayed in setting out despite the extenuating circumstances, and caught a fair enough wind that we were ahead of schedule when we encountered a strange fog, one that persisted for three days. It led us off course, and we were wrecked against the reef.

"Thinking perhaps we had come across one of the minor islands surrounding Sumatra, we headed ashore. Upon our first arrival, the gates of the city were closed and we encountered none of those . . . creatures. Rather, we came upon the natives who inhabited the ruins. They reacted violently to our intrusion."

"The basin." Skinner interjected. Marlow startled slightly, then nodded in his vague direction.

"We were forced to flee back to the ship. We armed ourselves with the weapons cache, though with casualties our small band was at a fierce disadvantage. A number of men, thinking that we must still be near islands more civilized, took one of the longboats and headed out to sea. The rest of us went about finding another route into the mainland, where there would be undoubtedly endless resources. Our fresh water supply was exhausted, our food near out. The only thing we were in surplus of was despair and ammunition.

"We found a strip of beach to the south-easternmost point of the island, and it is the only place I have found that does not let out into insurmountable cliffs or closed caves. We went into the jungle, and you can imagine what we found." Marlow closed his eyes; his tanned face contorted in emotion. The fingers of his empty hand pressed to one temple, and he lowered his gaze. With a shaking voice, he resumed. "No matter how well-armed a man is, there are some things one cannot prepare for, and even prepared, cannot always face. There were more than a few instances when we were surprised, broken apart by an attack from those . . . monsters. I fear I am the only one left."

The sailor let out another heavy breath before the hand dropped, his expression composed, and he fixed Sawyer with a deadly serious stare. "I started watching shortly after their arrival, thinking . . . that I may steal their craft, I suppose, though God knows what I would have done with it. Desperation will drive a man to insanity." He barked out a cynical laugh. "But I seem to get ahead of myself.

"They came in a great flying machine."

* * *

He caught only slight glances of dark catacombs beyond, twisted and caved tunnels, pungent with the stench of rot, the most furtive glimpses of unimaginable terrors that shined like grease in the torchlight, masses that hung from the ceilings bloated and furred and erupted from the ground in clustered groups of fantastic color and sheen. He was quickly lead into another chamber, and left with a simple parting of the sibilant voice:

"I trust you will find your accommodations most suitable." Followed by the clang of the iron door closing behind him, and the lock's heavy tumblers falling into place.

There were no sumptuous furnishings incongruent with the subterranean backdrop, no facades of debonair civility. The large den was illuminated by harsh electric lights that gleamed off the surplus of metal, of glass, the lurid rainbows of chemicals as they pooled, dribbled, ran, reacted with froth and steam. Along the far wall were shelves lined with books, medical journals and scientific texts of every language and form, paralleled by a line of steel tables occupied with every associated instrument imaginable. The only discrepancy in the laboratory scene lie with the gentle, resonant notes of a violin, echoing through the stifled air that reeked of carbolic acid. The dulcet, mournful melody was marked with a horrible, agonized shrieking.

"It seems he's nabbed another." Came a level, phlegmatic voice. A white curtain separating a corner of the room snapped back, revealing a willowy gentleman upwards of sixty in age. He was wiping his red soaked hands on the blood streaked apron covering his trim waistcoat and trousers. "Captain Nemo, is it?"

"What nest of horrors is this?" Nemo breathed with a distracted nod of affirmation. The feral screaming had tapered into silence. "What in the name of--?"

"Nothing of concern, Captain." The dour gentleman turned to flick the curtain shut behind him, leaving only the brief impression of red and matted black. With an air of indifference, he began rolling down his shirtsleeves as he crossed the room, and offered a cordial nod of his sallow, white-fringed brow. "I suppose introductions are in order. Dr. Alphonse Moreau."

"Another failure, dear doctor?" A gruff voice quipped haughtily, and Nemo turned. A second man was seated at one of the metal tables, he bull-faced, middle-aged, possessing a head of immense size, with a long black beard that tumbled halfway down a stocky chest. Despite the prominent, dictatorial aura of his upper body, his feet dangled a few inches short of touching the floor. When he finally looked up, he regarded Nemo without removing the monocular corked against one beady blue eye, took the captain in with an air of curiosity tinged with more than a hint of disdain. "George Edward Challenger, as you undoubtedly already know." A small bone was pinched between his thick, hairy fingers, and he returned to it without further intermission.

Moreau seemed either not to have caught the condescension in the other man's tone or chose to ignore its presence, muttering somewhat to himself as he approached one of the flanking tables, where, upon a chemical hot plate, a kettle rested. There the first signs of the previous decadence reemerged: a porcelain tea tray was produced swiftly from a cabinet. "One would expect such creatures to be of considerable fortitude in regards to their environment, but these have given me by far the most trouble. Always when extending the arms; the elasticity of the arteries--"

Challenger glanced up with a sneer. "Or perhaps it is fact that you are using _pseudoscience_ in an attempt to combine a _dog_ and a _baboon _and make it wear a bloody _suit_--"

"Enough drivel, by God!" One of the curtained archways that lined the back of the room billowed outward suddenly with violent intrusion, and Nemo regarded the interloper with open astonishment. He was of a bear of a man, burly and robust in body, with a solid neck beneath an intelligent, brusque face. His hair was coarse and black, his jaw massive and clean-shaven but for a small goatee. Expression contorted in preparation for some further howl, the man broke off in sight of Nemo; he offered a curt nod of recognition, glowered at the other men with his burning coal eyes before retreating back to the divided room with another flap of the fabric screen.

"Tea, Captain?"

Nemo shook his head slowly in astonishment as he advanced further into the chamber. "You are all . . . employed by this madman?"

"I believe 'imprisoned' is the proper term." Moreau stated nonchalantly as he handed the captain a delicate cup. "This doctor fellow hardly runs a proper democracy. I was snatched from my island, which was so brilliantly exposed by that feeble minded Prendick, Challenger from his home—"

The stubby man with the robust cranium looked up, moaned with genuine woe that contorted his puggish features, "My poor dear wife, she must think me dead and gone!"

"—and Robur . . ." Moreau's weathered face shifted slightly in vexed befuddlement as he looked to the archway. "All the same, we were taken rather abruptly upon his flying contraption, completely disillusioned from where we ended."

"Hardly." Challenger snorted with disdain. He had abandoned his bones and was in the process of cutting and lighting a cigar. "Surely it is some jungle of the Amazon hitherto unexplored, a conclusion I have come to in view of the reptiles and insects this doctor has brought to me to classify. Never before—" he gestured to a large jar resting on the desk beside him, which encased a number of brilliant crimson centipedes a foot in length, curled in the glass container like ropes of grotesque licorice, "--have I come across scolopendra with this distinct venom. A single bite could kill a grown man in less than a minute. Not to mention a species of swamp adder of indistinct ancestry, with a bite that could drop an elephant almost instantly. Even Australia's Inland Taipan is incapable of such a feat. And fossils," he waved a hand to the skeleton before him, puffing out a smoke ring, "of both ornithischian and saurischian dinosaurs, in such quantity and in such pristine condition, with species never before identified . . . we must be resting on a massive graveyard. The largest yet discovered, I would venture to say."

Nemo had, throughout the motions, been scouring for the gramophone from which the violin music was emitting. He could find none. It was then that he noticed a forth figure, sitting in an armchair, secluded from the others in shadow and blue tobacco smoke. The only thing perceptible of him were the fluid, melancholy motions of drawing the bow.

Challenger caught his gaze, and his mouth skewed in annoyance as he broke off his lecture. "Pay him no mind. He does nothing useful other than carry on with that racket while enjoying our proprietor's considerable hoard of cocaine. Indolent wretch."

Nemo watched the silhouette for a moment longer before turning back to the other men. "And none of you have attempted to escape?"

Moreau simply made a noncommittal noise in his throat, his gaze distracted. Challenger scoffed, puffed out his barrel chest. "G.E.C. would hardly give up the opportunity – Nay, it is my professional responsibility to the scientific community to study the exceptional and prehistoric specimen brought to me by this lunatic."

A roar of laughter. Robur had reappeared and stood leaning against the furthest wall with a sardonic grin, his powerful arms folded over his massive chest. "Meaning when he attempted the noble feat, two of those Burmese fellows gave him a licking he'll not soon forget!"

Challenger purpled, bared his teeth. "Someone of your obviously limited mental facilities should not play such dangerous games, Robur, lest your infantile jabber provoke a just thrashing!"

Robur grinned wider; he turned his hands up, palms exposed. "Provoke? I invite it! It's been a while since I've had a good row, though anything you offer could hardly qualify."

Moreau had retrieved a text from one of the shelves and was studying its contents intently; he spared a cross glance at the two men."A moment of professionalism, would you?"

"What is he keeping you here for?" Nemo pressed, mystified and disconcerted by the scientists' apparent apathy to their plight. Robur came away from the wall, strolled towards the Captain while waving a hand to their laboratory surroundings.

"The vivisectionist and the midget—"

Challenger leapt from his chair, which reduced his height by a number of inches, began rolling up his sleeves. "I will ask you to hold your tongue no more before I rip it from your bovine skull!"

"—he uses for his experiments. And he has found use of my _Albatross_."

Nemo regarded Robur carefully, levelly, said nothing; the aviator's black eyes glittered. "You're wondering how?" The question was a low growl. Nemo simply nodded.

Robur's broad shoulders slouched slightly, his expression became malignant, eyes burning subdued black fire; he stoked his goatee pensively. "I once held two men for weeks upon my 'contraption'," he glowered at Moreau, who showed no discernible response other than continued impassivity, "on the rational that I was their superior in intellect and strength, and therefore had the right to do what I would. It seems the tables have turned." He scowled at the captain. "What of you? How did you come to be in this veritable hell?"

"Chance." Nemo murmured after a moment. "Or fate. I have come to find that the two often intertwine."

Challenger, nonplussed at the apparent disregard, clenched his jaw and moved to smooth his jacket before stating with forced levelheadedness, "If you two are quite finished jawing, I'm sure my colleague Moreau would not mind showing a fellow man of science our work."

* * *

He vaulted down into the gaping chasm, the vines breaking under his monstrous body as he latched, rebounded from the rock walls in an ape's primal gate, and came to rest at the base, calf-deep in putrid gray mud. Around him the darkness stirred to life; giant bloodworms erupted from the foul water, thrust out at him with proboscis lined with black teeth. Spiders scuttled down the walls in floods, lumbering beetles the size of cabs emerged from the shadows.

He tore through them, dismembering their spindle legs, crushing their skulls like rotted fruit, stomping them, ripping the fluid bags of their bodies and gobbling the ooze that exploded when they burst. He was soon alone, the insects having retreated while others lay dead and dying at his feet, he panting raggedly, coated in fetid slime.

The smell was gone.

His jaw ground, he snorted, roared in confused frustration. He launched himself furiously at the wall and began to climb, reaching into the grottoes and snatching out more of the concealed insects, mutilating them, devouring them. Halfway up of the chasm he stopped, leaned close to a slick, sharp rock, and breathed deeply.

The smell, stronger, sweeter: fresh blood, a beacon in the darkness.

And with renewed vigor, he followed.

(_There was blood under his fingernails._

_He studied his hands, trembling violently, moaning desperate negations under his breath. "It can't be. It can't. He's sabotaged me."_

_His hands were ruddy, tender from being scrubbed; a thin, rust colored film remained just under nails usually so carefully trimmed, nails that were then ragged and torn, standing out in beacons against the long, thin fingers that were pressed to the scratched and dilapidated surface of the desk._

_  
His surroundings were unfamiliar, the time unclear. The tiny room's wallpaper was bleached and peeling, the atmosphere pungent with the odor of mildew. Against the wall a naked, stained mattress lay on a fractured box spring, coils of metal erupting in discord from the fabric. Beside it was a battered bureau lined at the base with mouse holes, and he could hear them scuffling in the absolute silence that defied his quavering words. He was dressed as he last remembered, in the same suit, though the collar was torn, his hat and cravat missing, his shirt cuffs frayed and without clasps. His jacket was spotted with dark colored stains, his hair disarray, his cheeks unshaven._

_His attention was on none of these things. Spread out before him in the air of perfect civility that defied his vagrant surroundings was a collection of beakers and phials, scales, glass bottles of chemicals he need only look at to identify. And in the middle of the sophisticated throng, heaped upon a small cloth, was a pile of chemical salt._

_  
"It won't work." He gasped. "It won't work because the salt was defective, the salt--"_

_And came the passing thought, drifting through his mind on a gentle air,_ And you think only one batch of salt has ever been made defective?

_  
There was a newspaper folded neatly upon the desk between his hands, the Pall Mall. At the top was the date. It had been two days since his suicide. He took it in his shaking hands; the headline blared his name.  
_

**The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde**

One week after the body of Edward Hyde was discovered dead by apparent suicide in the home of the well-respected Dr. Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S. etc., there remain many unanswered questions in the peculiar case. Edward Hyde has been confirmed posthumously as the murderer of Sir Danvers Carew, who was savagely beaten to death this past October in the Soho district. Many bear speculation to whether or not he is also involved in the untimely disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll, though the authorities say there is too little information to come to any conclusions at this time. Police have been summoned to search the doctor's property, though no indications of a concealed body have been found.

No evidence has emerged as to whether or not Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Edward Hyde were involved in some criminal misdeed together, begging the question to whether Dr. Jekyll were in some way responsible for the murder of Sir Carew. Of his client, Mr. Gabriel Utterson refused to comment, saying only Dr. Jekyll was a well-respected member of his community and a fine physician, and the suspicious actions before his disappearance were influenced by great physical and metal duress, almost certainly caused by some threat to his person or reputation.

The root of this blackmail will undoubtedly soon come to light, as well as details to the two men's ambiguous relationship. Inspector Lestrade (Scotland Yard) commented that the case appears to be a straightforward, but would give no further details.

In yet another bizarre turn of events, the body of Edward Hyde was reported by confidential sources to never have reached the morgue. When confronted with this, Inspector Lestrade further comments that it is a likely mix-up in transportation, but it is nothing of concern to the general public.

_Concealed lower on the page was a second story, and with mounting dread his eyes flickered over the terse announcement._

**Prominent Lawyer Found Dead In Home**

Mr. Gabriel John Utterson of Soho was found dead in his home late last night by his housemaid, the apparent victim of a botched home invasion

_"You bastard!" Jekyll screamed, threw down the paper and beat his hands against the table in a paroxysm of fury and despair, causing the phials and beakers to tinkle against each other with the crystalline chime of bells. "YOU BASTARD!" _

_He rested his head against the table, and sobbed. After a moment he lifted his eyes, and through his tears began to measure out the sugary grains of salt._

_Edward Hyde had won.)_

* * *

So, it's been a while . . . (sheepish grin) Please, before you tar and feather me, let me explain.

My computer crashed the _night_ I was going to post, and I literally lost everything. I was forced to completely rewrite this chapter by hand, while waiting for a friend to try and salvage my poor hard drive. So I am very, very sorry for the delay. It will not happen again.

I really wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response from last chapter by having this chapter up quickly, but . . . So, instead of this chapter, I want to thank you all for your patronage by having the next chapter (Chapter 11) posted within the next five or six days. Thank you for all of your patience and your wonderful comments, they mean the world.

**Stormyrose: **Thank you for the review! I'm not quite clear on sneaking novels out of the attic, but I'll definitely take it as a compliment!

**bloodstoneteres: **Thanks! Hopefully this chapter meets your expectations.

**nannon: **I'll tell you a secret . . . I'm a bit partial to him as well. And we'll definitely be seeing more of him. Thank you very much!

As for the characters introduced:

Professor George Edward Challenger: A scientific jack-of-all-trades, he is most noted for his arrogance, crudeness, and explosive temper. He is, however, a genius of rarely paralleled caliber, and capable of extreme devotion to those close to him. He is featured, most notably, in the books _The Lost World_ (1912) and _The Poison Belt_ (1913) by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Dr. (Alphonse) Moreau: A scientist who practiced the vivisection of animals on his secluded island, as well (established in the graphic novels) the development of hybrid diseases. He is from the work _The Island of Dr. Moreau_ (1896) by H.G. Wells.

Robur: A megalomaniac and brilliant inventor, he is the creator of the first flying machine, _The Albatross_. He is from the books _Robur the Conqueror_ (1886) and _Master of the World _(1904) by Jules Verne.

Any guess to whom the mysterious forth man may be?

I would very much appreciate any comments as well as criticism.


	11. Chapter 11: Sightless, Unless

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 11: Sightless, Unless

* * *

"What in the name of God--?" Skinner fished through the tin mug with his bent spoon and produced a lump of blackish, greasy meat. His face twisted, and he dropped it back into the rank smelling soup with a _plop_. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"You gonna eat that?" The invisible man pushed the cup towards Sawyer, who fell on it ravenously. Skinner leaned back against the dirt wall and closed his eyes, though the action was fruitless – during the discussion of events hitherto the dawn had come and gone; spears of dappled light filtered between the web of roots and knotted boards surrounding them, and in the grey morning glow his transparent eyelids were useless. Instinctively he moved to cover them, only to avert the hand upon the fruitlessness of the task revealed; instead, he rested the stiff fingers on his temple. Glassy pain had steadily grown over the course of the preceding hours, congealing behind his eyes, and he massaged the skin in attempted placation. With the other hand he covered the terse, dry cough that sent a bolt of pain through his congested chest.

Sawyer had continued talking through intermittent, voracious swallows of the oily soup. "I don't get it. I'm sure I saw Jekyll turn into Hyde -- though I'll admit everything is still a little fuzzy -- but you're saying he didn't even_ have_ his potion? And I know Mina gets irritated with you, but I didn't think she'd try and, you know . . ."

"It's as much a mystery to me as it is to you, mate." Skinner muttered tiredly.

Marlow, meanwhile, had sketched a crude map of the island in the loose dirt of the floor with a twig, and pointed to the different sections between sips of the broth. "There are ancient stone streets running all through the island, all connecting back to the main city. There are a number of landmarks, the biggest and most recognizable being the skull-shaped mountain, here . . . the beach, here . . . and the city itself, here. This is our position." He tapped near the center of the rudimentary drawing. "We are a few hours walk away from any point in the island. This . . ." He circled a spot a few inches left of theirs. "This where I have seen them. I recognized Doctor Moreau from the expositional they did on his vivisectionist activities in the Pall Mall. I have seen him and one other man brought out to collect samples of some of the mushrooms and insects of the jungle. What they are doing here I cannot claim to know, but it certainly seems as if they are being kept under coercion."

Sawyer nodded thoughtfully. When there was no response from the thief he looked up, eyes flickering over the wall. "Skinner?"

"Still 'ere, mate." Skinner sat up fully, a physical attempt to immerse himself into the conversation and push back the distractions of his battered form. "So, what's the plan?"

"Tonight is the lunar tide." Marlow continued. "We have a little over twelve hours to get your Nautilus from the rocks before she is stranded for another thirty days. If you will guide me to her position, I should be able to wrest her from her moorings."

Sawyer raised an eyebrow, his expression incredulous. "Marlow, the Nautilus is probably like nothing you've ever seen. Are you sure—?"

"Is she a ship?"

"Well,_ technically_ . . ."

Marlow beamed, and he nodded assuredly. "I've been a captain for over ten years, and I've handled everything from a river steamer to a coal bark. If she floats, I can steer her."

Sawyer gave a small shrug, but he was smiling as well; the expression shriveled as he looked to Skinner. "What about Nemo?"

"I'll take care of that. 'and me your jacket."

"You really think he's alive?"

"Bloody well 'ope so, for all our sakes." Skinner muttered as he slipped the article over his shoulders with an exaggerated shrug. "No offense to our friend 'ere, but I think 'is tune will change when 'e actually sees the 'Sword of the Sea'. You 'aven't got a cap, do you?"

Sawyer fished through his pack, produced a worn hat. "What are you going to do?"

Skinner waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. At Sawyer's persistent stare, he continued, "First lesson of professional thieving, Sawyer: Sometimes, the best way to sneak in is to do it right under their noses."

Sawyer nodded vaguely, brow furrowed in confusion; the expression shortly became grave, and his hands fell to rest on the pearl handles of his guns. "I'm going after the others."

Skinner abruptly stopped fixing the lapel of the jacket, and he fixed the younger man with a stern, unseen glare. "While in most cases I can appreciate the American shoot-first, questions-are-for-Frogs-and-dandies, Mina's problem is 'ardly a raring case of the monthlies." Tom flushed in chagrin. Skinners next words came with careful consideration, and he absently fingered the bandage at his arm. "You didn't see 'er, Sawyer. She came after me like a bat out of 'ell . . . she was completely out of 'er mind."

Tom regarded the theif with an expression that was openly cross. "You know why she didn't chase you? Because vampires can't cross water, except for at the tides. And all the stories say that they sleep during the day—"

"If I'm not mistaken, these stories also say that sunlight causes them to spontaneously combust. That 'asn't seemed to stop our fair bloodsucker from enjoying the occasional afternoon tea."

Tom offered a long-suffering sigh. "Listen, Skinner--"

"No, you shut your gob and listen to me, dammit." Skinner snapped, jabbed an invisible finger at the younger man. "I'm older and wiser and all that nonsense, and you're going back to the ship with Marlow. If Nemo is still alive we'll convene and tackle this problem from there, but until then you'll sit on your 'ands like a good little yob until we've got a plan. We're not just talking about Mina, Sawyer. Hyde, if 'e's still alive – and that blighter is bloody 'ard to kill – 'e'll 'ave no reservations about a little stroll in the sunshine. And if Mina is any indication, it's possible 'e's just as crackers as she is."

Sawyer face had retained its ruddy color, his eyes shining with a previously unseen bitterness. "And what if he isn't?" He retorted hotly. "What if Jekyll is out there, wandering around lost and half-dead like we both where? And what if Nemo is dead? What then? Will we just leave them here?"

Skinner was silent. Sawyer ground his jaw. "That's what I thought."

"Your optimism is refreshing, but this isn't an argument."

The agent clenched his hands and stood. "I'm not a kid, and I damned wish everyone would stop treating me like one. I've been through just as much as you all have—"

A harsh chuckle.

"—and managed to come out of it just fine, and without any handouts. I've been with the League just as long as you; I faced and took down Moriarty. I can handle anything--"

"It's that same quixotic reasoning that lead one of our members to the grave and another in more pain than any man should have to endure. I thought that you, of all people, would 'ave remembered that." Sawyer flinched back as if struck, his eyes widening, mouth falling open in shock.

The agent turned his head as his expression became something doubtlessly more revealing, and he gathered his pack from the ground without looking at the thief. Skinner let out a weary sigh, rubbed his temple. "Sawyer, I—" He was cut off by the sound of the sail flapping, the brief flash of the outer foliage before the sheltered gloom reoccurred, leaving the grotto silent and one occupant fewer. Skinner swore quietly, but made no move after the agent.

"You should not be so hard on him." Marlow said softly, finally, after a moment of tense silence. "He is young. He is . . . romantic. There are worse things to be."

"Generally I'd be the first to applaud 'is enthusiasm, but we find ourselves in quite an extraordinary position, wouldn't you agree?" Skinner sighed again, coughed roughly. "Go out and make sure 'e 'asn't run off, would you?"

Marlow stood, paused, seemed about to say something else, but instead followed after the younger man. Skinner sat against the wall for a moment more, his cool hand over his own brow before he got to his feet slowly. His whole body was stiff, aching from the events of the past day; worse, his scars had begun to tingle with a familiar, maddening itch. It was around the time of day he would have asked Mina for a handful of her pills and his physical form was regretting, not for the first time, ever having left the ship. He sighed heavily, pulled the cap over his naked scalp and pushed aside the sail.

Upon gaining common ground he found Marlow gazing out into the landscape while Sawyer stood to the side dejectedly. The agent didn't look at Skinner as he approached, and the thief felt a barb of irritation. The sailor simply pointed upriver. "It is about a two hour hike in this direction." Marlow smiled thinly, explained almost apologetically, "I wanted to make sure I was close enough to know of their happenings without putting myself in any danger of capture."

Sawyer put his shoulders back, said tersely: "Let's go." They were the last words spoken for the extent of the trek

The cantonment of the enigmatic interlopers was less than ten miles from their own camp; the terrain, however, was alternately steep, rock-strewn hills and jungle clotted with vegetation, and their passage was tedious. They stayed close to the river, tramping its muddy banks as it lead them down into a lush valley, where a wide stone road cut through the undergrowth like a bone ribbon. The seams between the stones' dilapidated surface erupted with clusters of weeds. Flanking the street, idols upon pedestals were carpeted in moss and creepers, some of the statues having fallen into complete disrepair. There their pace increased little, they stopping often with a wave of Marlow's hand, stilling to listen, to watch the jungle around them until they were bade to move forward again. As the day wore on the heat multiplied, and the muggy air became smothering, until their clothing was clinging to their frames with sweat, the invisible man removing his hat often to swipe at his drenched brow.

An hour of the trundling pace and they came to where the road sloped heavily downwards and the landscape spread out before them, ragged cliffs tumbling with white waterfalls above an infinite valley of green. Taupe colored reptiles vaguely reminiscent of antelope swarmed over the emerald plane like schools of fish, while much larger tribes of four-legged beasts roamed and grazed in the shade of the massive trees surrounding the clearing. They continued toward the panorama, just to veer sharply left and plunge into the dense jungle once again. Marlow lead them nearly half a mile more through the vegetation before they halted again at the crest of a steep, grassy hill that overlooked the surrounding landscape.

"There." He stated finally, and pointed. In the pellucid afternoon air, Skinner could see the twisting line of the road, and the barest tinges of the white wall that separated the city from the rest of the ruins. Before them, less than two hundred yards away was another of the colossal, crumbling altars. Distinguishing it from those they had previously passed were two dark-skinned figures prowling the front of the ruin, their dress out of place, their motions sharp and purposeful.

"From this point, after you retrieve him," Marlow said lowly, "you will follow the road south, which leads directly to the ruins on the beach. If Sawyer and I are successful and the weather is fair, we will bring the Nautilus as far into the lagoon as possible."

"Right." Skinner muttered. He turned to Tom, who was standing apart, watching the two sentinels. "Listen, Sawyer."

Sawyer made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

"Listen, dammit." Skinner snapped in a harsh whisper, and Tom turned towards the other man, his expression dark, passive. Skinner took a deep breath, continued. "If, of course, Marlow can get a 'andle on the controls – something I'm allowing since 'e seems to be an uncommonly bright chap -- I want you to promise you'll leave if I'm not there within twenty-four hours."

Sawyer's countenance twisted. "Skinner--"

"Promise."

"No. I won't." Sawyer shook his head. "You may not be one for team dynamic, but my short term in the service taught me that we don't leave anyone behind. I did it once . . ." He trailed off with a grimace, then looked at the other man, resolute. "And I'm not doing it again. So you better be on that beach when I get there, or I'm coming back, tracking you down and ramming my boot up your British ass. And that's a promise."

There was a surprised silence from the invisible man, and it was quickly broken by a low chuckle. "All right. Suppose I wouldn't be able to stop you anyways." He reached out and cuffed Sawyer affectionately. The tense air between them dissipated almost instantly, and the agent's boyish grin reemerged. It faltered, however, as Tom looked to the ruins and the two guards.

"Be careful, Skinner."

"You forget, I do this sort of thing for a living." He waved a hand. "Alright, go on; get out of 'ere 'fore they see you." Sawyer and Marlow nodded, and with a small chatter of the leaves, they had vanished back into the wall of foliage.

Skinner scrubbed his face with his hands. "Just like old times." He muttered, and straightened his jacket, cracked his neck and cleared his throat with a barking cough, spat. On cue, both dacoit looked up, raised the knives in their hands preemptively.

Skinner stepped out into the hillside.

"Hello!" He shouted brusquely, waved a hand. Both dacoits staggered back, let out shouts; neither moved beyond that, either offensive or defensive, simply watching the floating jacket and hat until they came to hang at their feet, gasping to each other in a language unknown to the invisible man. "Well, don't stand around looking like a couple of monkeys. Hello? Do you speak English?" The two continued to stare at him in abject mystification. Skinner scowled, grabbed one by the chin. "Take me to your leader, you bumbling idiot. I've had a devil of a night thanks to you lot and I've got half a mind to raise Cain. Jove, are you listening?" He slapped him none too lightly, and the man riled angrily, hand clenching his knife and raising it. Skinner brushed the weapon aside, grabbed him by the collar, snarled. "Tell whatever blackguard is running this ridiculous circus that Hawley Griffin demands some damned gentlemanly civility. I'll be damned if I spend another moment in this blasted wilderness when there's a bottle of Bordeaux and a cigar in the vicinity, and the English government be damned if this is what employment entails. Hello, what's this?"

The clamor had drawn the attention of more of the dacoit and they came spilling from the mouth of the ruins just to pause in the same bewilderment. In a chain of the same unfamiliar tongue they withdrew, and Skinner was beckoned to curtly. The thief released the other man with a shove and a growl, and turned to tramp after the other.

"Thank you very much, you deuced halfwits."

He followed the dacoit into the half-collapsed alter, down the dilapidated stone staircase and into the earth.

* * *

The sun had progressed to hang high in the sky, though she lay untouched by its simmering heat, sheltered in the depths of the pooled shadows. Above her, the cloud of massive bats rustled their wings as they, too, rested for the coming night; she, gorged on blood, remained entrenched in the world of rapturous dreams.

_(The mourners had gone, taken their cakes and pies and idle consolations with them, though empty the house seemed very large, and very lonely. Mina had let a great deal of the staff go with severance, save for a single housemaid, and through the open window she could see the woman taking down the white linen from the clotheslines as the blue bled out of the sunset sky. The night was warm, and quiet. Quincy, who had yet begun to walk but for a few clumsy steps, was sitting on the floor, banging his rattle into the carpet. At the sound, Mina looked up from the papers in her hands. From across the library Quincy offered a cherub smile, a wave of a chubby hand; he giggled. Even so young she could tell he would grow to closely resemble his father, save for his shock of red hair. _

_"What did they say it was?" Lord Goldaming appeared in the doorway, still dressed in his own mourning black, regarding her with heavy, red-rimmed eyes. _

_"Arthur." She reached a hand out to him, and he strode forward swiftly, took her almost desperate entreaty. They remained for a minute, the two tragedians of their horrific tale, Quincy's play the persistent metronome of time passing before her hand fell from his, and she spoke. "Brain fever was the official cause, a reoccurrence from that in Transylvania. I suppose it is the most likely explanation."_

_"Do you think—?"_

_"I don't know what to think." She cut tersely. A tense silence pervaded the space between them before he pressed._

_"You don't think this has anything to do with the Count, do you?"_

_She fixed him with a steeled expression. "Don't be ridiculous, Arthur. That was nearly ten years ago."_

_Lord Goldaming nodded absently, then gestured in the vague direction of the foyer. "I was surprised not to see Dr. Van Helsing. I trust you've written him?"_

_"Only to inform him of Jon's passing." She said brusquely, and then sighed. "But I've not heard back from the good doctor. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. We haven't seen him since Quincy's christening, and he is often at any given point on Earth at any particular time." She linked her pale hands together, looked into them. "It is a shame. Jonathon was greatly fond of him. He would have wanted . . ." She pressed two fingers to her lips as the final words quavered, closed her eyes as two tears spilled from the fine lashes. Lord Goldaming's hand touched her shoulder and she took it, gripping it tightly. When she had regained the fortitude to continue she thanked him, offered a trembling, frail smile. "He would have wanted him here." Lord Goldaming was watching her tenderly, sorrowfully._

_"What will you do now, Mina?"_

_She made a vague gesture to the stack of papers before her as she regained her aloof manner. "Jonathon's left us enough to live the rest of our lives in luxury. The house was an inheritance from Mr. Hawkins, so it is ours." Her tone took a note that was both wistful and bitter. "But I think I should sell it, perhaps take Quincy to the coast. Get away from this place, and these wretched memories."_

_"Perhaps it would be for the best." Hesitatingly, he dipped down and pressed a fleeting kiss to her cheek. "You will take care, won't you?"_

_"Of course."_

_Quincy squealed with laughter as Arthur swept him up and kissed him. And with a final word of farewell, he was gone, and though she did not know it at the time, it would be the last occasion in which she would see her dear friend again._

_The room dimmed quickly as the sun finally slipped behind the hills and she sat, stoic and unmoving, looking at the piles of papers that were all that tangibly remained of her late husband and their life hitherto – wills, deeds, receipts, most notably the scrawled notes of his haphazard, dog-eared journal, it kept after their final venture concerning Dracula. She leafed through it briefly, arranging the papers that had been crammed into the binding with care, her eyes sweeping over passages that had become increasingly sparse and erratic as the dates progressed. She touched one of the yellow pages, his print upon it broken and frantic, the fractured cries of a diseased mind; she pressed it to her breast. "Oh, Jon, if you only would have told me how you suffered . . ."_

_A thud, a sharp scream cut her reminiscing short. She bolted up, and the pages fluttered to the floor. "Quincy?!" The room was in twilight as the sun lay in mid-rest, aided in light only by the single candle flame flickering upon the desk's surface; she picked it up briskly as she crossed the room, and set it on the floor as she knelt beside the baby._

_Their tabby housecat had sulked into the room through the door left ajar. Quincy had apparently attempted to catch it and in his stuttering, unsure gate he had fallen -- he lay on the floor, prostrate, bawling. Mina lifted him gently, positioned him to sit upright. "Shh, you're all right."_

_Bright blood dribbled down his dimpled chin; he had cut his lip on one of his new teeth. His face was bright red, rapidly growing purple with the effort of his bawling screams; strings of spittle webbed his open mouth as he wailed, tears squeezing from the corners of his screwed eyes. Mina shushed him and retrieved her handkerchief. _

_"There, you're all right." She hushed, pressed the white fabric to his mouth. The droplets of bubbly blood soaked through the sheer material instantly. She dabbed his lip, folded the cloth over and wiped his chin. "Shh, Mummy's here. Mummy's . . ." _

_And as the final light weaned from the room, leaving them in the candle's jaundice glow, her perceptions seemed to shift, to galvanize: the scent of the burning beeswax candle took a new weight, that of the cat's dander, the rich wood polish all overlaid with the acrid, metallic odor of the blood that continued to dribble from Quincy's wide, screaming mouth, an odor that seemed to fill the room like a miasma. The dark room was brighter, each woven string of the carpet standing out with limpid clarity, the yellow light gleaming from the thin red line and the wetness of the infant's eyes, his tears. And his cries, suddenly, seemed both amplified and subdued, mingled with the din of crickets spurned to life outside the window, the sound of her own breathing and the roaring rush of blood in her ears. _

_Mina swallowed thickly, lips flickering out over her dry lips, still murmuring the soft comforts through the dizzying, lucid stupor. She was instantly, deftly aware of the fabric in her hands, the warmth of Quincy's back against her palm, the tickle of her own hair against her neck and the restrictions of the bodice while the cat bumped against her hunched back, rubbing its head against her bent leg. Her heartbeat against her breast was heavy, slow, solid, the touch of the breeze was maddening; before she was aware she had raised the handkerchief, and touched the still wet bloodstain to her tongue._

_The taste was both saccharine and bitter, reminiscent of fine wine and liquid metal. She reeled, the sound of her heartbeat was thunderous, and beneath its raging tide she could hear, she could feel the fluttering of a second. Her breathing quickened, her hand tightened; Quincy gave out a little cry of pain and began to shriek anew._

_"Madame Harker, is Quincy—" Mina's hand shot out, and the cat let out a shrieking howl, spurred her; the skin of its neck tore like fabric, and her mouth was flooded with wet, putrid heat._

_The housemaid screamed. She flew forward, snatched Quincy from Mina's iron grip, and the child's shirt tore clean away. The woman fled, still shrieking, a squalling Quincy in her grasp._

_Mina devoured the blood that was hot as fresh coffee, gulping it greedily it until the cat's heart stilled, and the corpse grew cold and the lava flow halted. She dropped it, satiated, gasping, brought her hands to her lips and licked them with a child's vehemence. In the same breath she was screaming in horror, lurching into the washroom to bend over the sink, retching up vile blood and clots of matted hair._

_Hands trembling, sweating and weak, sobbing hoarsely, she looked into the mirror. _

_There was no reflection.)_

* * *

More than an hour after watching Skinner disappear into the depths of the ruin, Sawyer and Marlow emerged from the jungle to come upon a second enormous doorway, the wide door hanging broken and ajar. "Come on." Marlow said as he slid through the break in the wood. "It's still a ways left to backtrack before we reach the ship, and time is running short—"

"I can't leave them." Marlow glanced back. Sawyer was looking back into the jungle, his face obviously pained; he turned to the sailor and shook his head. "I can't." Sawyer fumbled at his belt until he had released one of the colt pistols, and he held it out to the other man. "Take this, and if the crew gives you any trouble, tell them I sent you on behalf of Nemo. The Nautilus is about a quarter mile west of _The Palestine's_ wreckage. You'll know it when you see it." The agent hesitated, eyes flickering over Marlow's face, his expression both openly defiant and a desperate plea. A moment static, and the sailor nodded in understanding.

"Do what you have to." Sawyer broke into a appreciative grin. He clapped the other man on the shoulder, had turned and broken into a half run before Marlow's voice stopped him.

"Sawyer, wait!" The agent whirled. Marlow, instead of calling him back, pointed. "There are hundreds of ruins like those Skinner described across the island, but there is only one swampland, and that is to the far southeast! Follow the wall due east, and it will lead you! You should find your Mina there!"

Sawyer grinned again, waved, "Thanks, Marlow!" And he was gone into the jungle.

"God be with you!" Marlow shouted after the man as he watched him disappear into the flora. The sailor turned, started across the desolate ruins towards the beach in a jog, then broke into a full run as his feet touched the white powder sand. The light had taken a definite shift from afternoon to evening approaching. Marlow retrieved the small boat overturned and hidden amongst the dapples of palm trees and high grass and turned it over, checked hurriedly for cracks. When none of serious gravity revealed themselves, he began pushing the craft towards the ocean's gently lapping waves. "And with me, too."

* * *

Hooray, I kept my promise! (well, very nearly, at least)

Wow! Longest chapter yet! I hope everyone has enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully the next will be out posthaste. I hope I was able to get Mina across properly; I'm attempting to make a bridge between the cold, detached Mina of the movie and the somewhat more emotional one of the book, so hopefully I've done well.

To my wonderful anonymous reviewers:

**Bloodstoneteres: **You have given me a very, very great compliment, and I thank you very much for it. And I'm very glad you liked the Professor; for the other two characters the books provide just the barest of skeletons so it is easy to use them, but Challenger is well rounded in his work, so it was a bit more difficult to try and convey him. It makes me very happy that someone familiar with the work was happy with it. And I will continue to curse my computer from here until the next decade, but I'm afraid I can't live without it. ;)

**Rhosyndu: **Very glad you liked it! Huzz . .ay? I'm glad you liked the little references; it's a little difficult to find ones that fit (damned if I could find a literary housemaid for this chapter) but I try, and I'm happy to hear they aren't unnoticed. And I'm not very good at double-speak, but I think you may be spot on! But we'll know for sure next chapter! Huzzay!

Also, since I've started referencing other works, I wanted to let everyone know that every one alluded to so far is in public domain, and can be read for free. The best website I've found thus far is:

www .classicreader. com (be sure to remove the spaces.)

I love to hear comments, questions and criticism!


	12. Chapter 12: Of Empty Men

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

Preemptive author's note: Ugh, I am so sorry. Not only has it taken me over a month to update, I haven't even replied to most of you lovely reviewers, whom I owe my deepest gratitude and to all reading, my deepest apologies. It's a rather long and complicated story and I'm sure you would much more like to read the one below than have me take up your valuable time, so please enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 12: Of Empty Men

* * *

The blue sky was slowly eclipsed by eroded stone as Skinner progressed down the stairwell and into the belly of the derelict temple, he flanked by a gaggle of the dacoit that continued to mumble to each other in tones Skinner could only hope reflected amazement rather than some nefarious intent. Two dozen pitted steps in descent and the air had grown cooler, musky with earth; his bare feet touched the moist, packed dirt of the subterranean vestibule and he was briskly seized by the elbows.

Skinner batted them off, growled. "I'm quite capable of putting one foot in front of the other on my own, thank you."

An olive face above him distorted in an ugly sneer, lips curling to reveal a line of tombstone teeth that nearly glowed in the dim light. The thugee snapped in broken English. "Touch nothing, if you value your life."

Skinner offered an unseen simper. "Of course."

The rat tunnels were cloaked in utter blackness in the stretches between the crude, suspended torches that emitted haloes of red light, the illumination revealing dimly the smooth, tumorous growths that caked the walls and floor like trellis work, hung from the low ceiling as if cow carcasses from butcher hooks. The dacoit's steps were cultured, knowing, and they avoided the tangled, putrid vines with easy dexterity. Skinner recalled the warning with some unease as the path became increasingly treacherous, and he followed the revealed footholds carefully while silently ticking away steps walked, corridors passed. There was the distinct impression of descent as they advanced, of isolation, disorientation, of buried claustrophobia; but the temperature had not changed and he was not fooled – he was a veteran of too many illicit escapades to be fuddled by tunnel work.

After being lead in an infinite trek of what he suspected were largely circles, aching and about to noisily protest, Skinner was, without presentation, pushed into a draperied doorway.

His first thought was of fire, the chamber was so choked with smoke. Skinner stumbled blindly, raised a coat sleeve over his mouth as the curtain fell shut behind him. The smoke clung to the back of his throat, he choked on acrid air while the instinctive, panicked cry was smothered by a fit of coughing . . . but no, with watery eyes the surroundings came into hazy distinction, his brain registering the fumes not fire-borne but of something far less ominous. The thief touched a shaking hand to his temple and the tension left him with a shudder; he barked in a hoarse voice. "Oh, don't bloody get up."

The room was barely illuminated by parallel electric lights, they wraithlike beneath the veil of clouds, silken pillows and cushions upon a garish carpet cast in shuffled shadows. All were satellites to a central low table, upon it a golden, ornate standing pipe, a long black tube curled from the vase body like a sleeping serpent. The golden head wound to disappear into the deeper shadows, revealed only by the catch of light upon its luster, that of the jeweled fingers it dangled between. Skinner could see no more of the dark silhouette framed against the fog, recumbent on lurid velvet chaise. "Wouldn't want to trouble you."

"Mr. Griffin." The voice was soft, lethargic, a whisper that sent inexplicable trepidation trickling down the thief's heart like melting ice. As sudden as lanterns lit, twin glowing green irises appeared in the darkness, bored into his own, the feline pupils fixated, unmoving. Skinner jolted, reminded of his foray with Mina before the jacket reminded him of himself, of his state of dress. As if catching the thought, the eyes narrowed into amused Cheshire sickle-moons. "We've been expecting you."

Skinner's tongue flickered over his dry lips; he cleared his throat as he sought to quell his racing heart and any tremble of his voice, cursing himself and the abrupt, ridiculous nervousness. He offered an unseen scowl. "Is that so?" The thief straightened his lapel in supposed chagrin as he advanced into the room, came to stand across from the mysterious figure, ignoring the sweeping motion of the spindle hand to sit. The features of the sibilant voiced man had come no clearer into distinction. "By the way your lackeys reacted to my untimely arrival I'd have guessed their idiot skulls were decidedly unaware of that bulletin." He sneered. "Am I to take it you're the ringleader of this little band of darkie marauders? By the little show in the ruin's courtyard earlier I would have hardly expected such an admirable strategist to be a disgusting sot."

"Shadows often work best with the least amount of light." The words were blithe, unmindful of the insult. The pipe raised slowly. "You would not deny me the honor of sharing a pipe with a man of such greatness as yourself?"

"Perfect. Just as I was about to dismiss you a mannerless heathen." Skinner sat easily, though his body was throbbing with exhaustion, his knees nearly unsteady beneath him. He took the pipe, wiped it presumptively on the shoulder of his jacket before putting the golden piece between his lips. The water of the hookah bubbled, gurgled; the green eyes smiled.

The smoke was acrid, thick, and Skinner's lungs moved instantly to reject it from their battered forms as he inhaled, eyes falling shut, careful to take just a taste – the world was full of enough nightmares to be incapacitated by opium dreams. Over the past two days, his body had become infiltrated with a constant, restless buzzing, like that of an agitated beehive, an aching thrum reverberating from the core of his being outward to weary muscles and tender skin. Moments after the smoke touched his mouth, the painful tension of his body unfurled like a loosening fist.

Skinner exhaled slowly, eyelids at half-mast with relief; he saw the strange figure's eyes glitter as the wisps of smoke revealing the outlines of his lungs crept up his trachea, took slight impressions of his mouth, tongue and teeth, then dissolved into the pungent air.

"Magnificent." The voice purred.

Warm drowsiness had slipped over the thief, he shook it off, replied languidly, "A parlor trick."

"So say the gods as they leer over the simple mortal man." Drinks had been set out before them during Skinner's drifting pause, a brandy sweating upon the decadent table in front of him. Skinner downed it quickly, thoughtlessly. The second provided by a source he didn't pause to study was half-reduced, then nursed in his increasingly steady hands.

"I admit myself fascinated by you." The sibilant voice had grown firmer, sharper, and while sitting the iridescent emerald eyes seemed to loom above Skinner. "A man of science so dedicated to his labors he is willing to sacrifice his livelihood . . . to drive himself to madness." A smile was revealed by a glint of yellow teeth. "Only to sell himself to the very men he set himself to lord upon. Do you not care for your comrade or his fate?"

"I can assure you those little accessories were hardly planned." Skinner snorted as he sipped his drink. "I've found the life of an invisible man exemplifies my needs rather than assuages them; the twits in wigs have promised to return me my books if I'm 'a good boy'. Whether or not those other fools blindly following their rein manage to keep themselves alive is of no concern to me. And . . ." He tipped the glass in cheers. "My loyalties are always available for negotiation. If the bid is high enough, of course."

"Of course." As the figure moved, his face remained cloaked in shadow, drawn upon with slanted rectangles of blackness. But upon the thin lips was a small, disconcerting simper, and Skinner felt a twinge of unease. The eyes flashed. "If I may be so bold, Mr. Griffin . . . Tell me, how did you manage to hide the tapetum of your eyes without becoming a blind man? Or to regulate the intake of light so to prevent ocular trauma, being you have no use of your eyelashes or eyelids?"

Skinner stiffened, and the glass paused at his lips. He offered an easy, slightly mocking smile that resonated through his tone. "Bold? For one so inquisitive you hold me . . ." He touched his temple. ". . . at a disadvantage." The lights in the room suddenly seemed brighter, and he blinked furiously, shook his head. "You know everything about me, I haven't even gotten your name."

"I believe it was your poet who proclaimed such titles as ineffectual as simple plant life. Such trivialities should not come between the parries of great minds, don't you agree?"

Skinner cocked his head, smiled slowly. "Fair enough. When otherwise out of Dante's seventh circle I've found pince-nez--" He broke off abruptly at a sudden lightheadedness, as the world's axle seemed to shift beneath him. He attempted to return the tumbler to the table and it dropped short, fell to the carpet with a heavy sound, spilling the amber fluid across the carpet. Skinner looked at it dumbly, muttered, " . . the pince-nez . . ." Revealed against the glass in limpid clarity were tiny flecks of residue.

The figure was standing, a dark idol, his eyes grown knowing, venomous, without a hint of opium film. Skinner staggered to his feet, sending the table over with a deafening clatter. The hookah toppled. The opium ball rolled across the floor, a smoldering coal.

Skinner stumbled back a step, two. "What've you . . ." He muttered dumbly, his voice viscous, clinging to his lips like droplets of lead. The world dropped from underneath him and he staggered. The green eyes doubled, quadrupled, spun in an emerald carousel.

"You must think me a great fool." The sibilant voice murmured. Skinner turned to the doorway even as colors bled into each other like a fever dream; the curtains shifted, billowed, and he fell into the waiting arms of a dacoit. "But you may be of use to me yet."

They were the words that carried him to darkness.

* * *

"Truly a work of genius." Professor Challenger's expression was a subtle show of self-aggrandizing admiration as he stood on the threshold of one of the smaller, adjacent rooms to the laboratory, the violin's mournful singing tempered within. The curtain separating it from the larger room was gathered in one of Challenger's thick hands, the other gesturing inward with a grandiose wave. In the rectangle of light emitted by the open doorway, the captain could see a small but serviceable bed pressed against the far corner, the sheets neatly starched and pressed. More of the bookcases lined the walls. All were empty, neat, spotless. Untouched.

"They found him wandering about in the jungle. Apparently this Devil Doctor could find no better use for him." Moreau remarked.

"Dear God." Nemo murmured, brought two weathered fingers up to touch his dry lips. "Dear God, what has this madman done?"

Robur let out a guttural chuckle, and when Nemo turned there was a glint of insanity in aeronaut's serpentine eyes. "We're all madmen here, Captain."

It would seem at first glance, in the absence of direct light, to be a strange plant grown into the uncanny resemblance of a human, or some mound of white clay half-formed into an unfinished statue. The figure was bent as if tumbling, the hands upraised in entreaty in some caricature of mercy sought. But as the beam of Challenger's electric torch settled on the ill formed head of the figure, Nemo could see the gray snarls of hair rising from the whitish, snowy mold that carpeted the figure as a second skin, the gleam of teeth against an open, black cavity, the fine ivory of fingernails in the outreaching hands. The brass buttons of a Royal Naval suit, of cufflinks winked the light back at them.

"They are the spores of the entpusa, cross-bred to enormous proportions, the metabolic structure manipulated to accelerate maturation." Challenger continued, beaming. "It is not perfect yet – the fungus only germinates when its atmosphere is hyper-oxygenated -- but the project holds astounding promise. A madman this 'Doctor' may be, but as a mycologist he is quite brilliant . . . but of course he could not have completed what was merely a fantasy without myself or my college. I have had some experience with fungi in my study of biology, and Moreau--" Challenger offered a scathing simper, "—well, he's hardly adverse to breeding bastards of science."

"And we are at no risk?"

"None at all." Nemo stepped forward, and as he did the subtle, dank smell of the room grew thicker, more stifling, and he briefly remembered the odor in the hallways before pushing the thought aside. He reached to the lapel of the dead man's jacket.

The fungus was wet, spongy, a tree-moss texture, and as he pulled the jacket open there was a soft ripping as the mold came apart. The underside of the jacket was still preserved and radiated royal blue from the otherwise white-caked figure; Nemo reached into the jacket's inner pocket and retrieved the envelope tucked securely in the fabric fold. He released the jacket. The delicate swath of fabric fell to the floor with a slopping sound. The arm it encased fell from transfixion, hung in the socket like a broken marionette's.

Nemo turned from the wretched figure, examined the envelope in his hands. The Queen's seal, above the finely printed name Captain Robert Curtis. Nemo tucked the letter into his lapel, unopened. When he looked to the three men watching him in lackadaisical curiosity, his fists clenched in a sudden paroxysm of rage, his mouth pulled in a sneer.

"Do you not understand what you have done?" He bellowed, flung a hand back at the terrible figure. "Do you not see that this could destroy cities? _Countries?_ What else would you give him so thoughtlessly in the pursuit of science?" At their continued aloofness the Captain cried, "Would you take no responsibility?!" The demand was met with only cold silence.

He turned, riled on Robur. "I see now what becomes of those who are without worth to him. Tell me which part of your heart you have cut out and lain at his feet."

Rober's brow darkened. "Do not chastise me, Captain."

"Chastise? You all should be damned to the deepest eternities for what you have done!"

Moreau's expression was condescendingly patient. "You, dear Captain, are hardly in the position to preach morality. Let he who is without sin . . ."

"I do not claim to be a sinless man. There are things I have done I am not proud of, that I would give an eternity to do again. But you! You carry out such disgraces with not only indifference but with pride! Have you no conscience? Has this dungeon made you forget your fellow men? Have—" He stopped suddenly, dark eyes widened as his balled fists fell to his sides, loosened. "Dear God." The captain murmured as he looked back onto the mottled white face of the dead man, looked into his worn hands. "My God, I am one of you."

Nemo pushed past the other men in a sort of daze, fell into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. "What have I let myself become?" He whispered. "I am a fool. To embark upon the path of 'retribution' without a thought to those whom I would prove savior, to those whose lives I would take . . . and for what reason? Pride? Adventure? Power? And to be self-righteous in such ambition . . ." A bitter chuckle. "I am the worst of you all."

Silence stretched as no man moved, none spoke. The violin music continued, unmindful of their quarrel, the mysterious figure continuing with the graceful ballet of composition as if he mechanical.

"An automobile." Robur spoke suddenly. "Not unlike yours." His grin, for the first time, was almost genial. "Something I have been working on since my Albatross was cast into the sea. Though automobile may be too confining a word – a craft the can travel across sea, air and land at speeds upwards of two hundred miles per hour. It is, of course, just in its birthing stages, but—"

The violin music abruptly halted.

* * *

Bars of light intermittent with those of darkness shifted in sweeping gestures across the ground while twins remained static and he lay, solid, sweltering, unmoving in red gloom. The world twisted in slow, uneven pirouettes, the darkness of the room suffocating in its undeterminable depth. An eon he dropped through the air leaden, the walls panting sour breath on his dust-caked skin. He was burning, freezing; solidity assured itself with the cold bite of metal, his shoulders grinding in their sockets.

He drifted.

_(Light from the far-off cantonment was like a distant yellow star, its dim, quavering beam infiltrating the undulating veldt entrenched in midnight, reflecting from the pools of black blood, of gleaming gun barrels, the white of open, empty eyes. The stench was unbearable, heavy, rotten, wet; flies buzzed a steady static among the lines of corpses while the African breeze breathed a hushed prayer over the battlefield._

_The sky -- which he had been admiring in drowsy wakefulness as the opiate's effect eased -- was a cloudless sheet of velvet, and the brilliant constellations radiated like tiny, limpid diamonds in the absence of the moonlight. In a sudden flood of spastic motion he jackknifed upward, and the word burst from his lips before he had the chance to think, shattering the silence of the savannah like a gunshot._

_"Bunny?"_

_There was no answer. He turned at the strange softness underhand and found his palm pressed into the bloated belly of a corpse. He started, jerked back, thinking for a moment it was . . ._

_"Thank God." A stranger. He rested back against the small rock barrier with a heavy sigh, absently began rooting through his pockets for his cigarette case. It was empty; he'd given his last away. He let out a skittish laugh, turned to the corpse beside him in consideration._

_"Mind?" The ruined, fly-covered face gave no reply. A silver case in the front breast pocket contained a single Sullivan, and he thanked the dead man appreciatively. There was the heavy sound of movement further down the line, either friends or Boers searching the dead for supplies, and the knowledge that either party could fall on him guns blazing did not stop him from producing a match. It took two before him trembling hands could hold the flame. Sipping smoke complacently, he turned the stolen cigarette case to catch some of the light in self-examination. Bunny's borrowed blood matted his hair, ran a dry trickle down the hollow of his eye like a crimson tear. He fisted it away, revealing unmarred skin._

_"The knees of the Gods." He muttered finally, bitterly, shutting the case with a snap. With a laugh that bordered on a sob, he flicked the dying cigarette away. "Damned coward. Damned bloody coward."_

_An eternity in darkness he remained as the faraway voices grew more distant, as the wind died and left him in the crypt stillness of the African plain, the chill of the barrens as the night matured. He had come seeking . . . what? The dreams of a hero's death, some romantic notion tucked in a child fold of his mind still caught with shining knights and kings riding into battle? Redemption for sins he did not regret? He had faced death, looked into the black eye of a rile barrel while the blood of his only friend cooled on his hands, jabbering emptily with cheerfulness even as his heart froze in his breast with the sudden, crystalline realization of eternity, of God and the illimitable end._

_And in that moment of judgment, with all the starry-eyed notions of honor and courage fleeing from him he had run from it, cowed and trembling and desperate to drink of life's bitter wine. And imbibing he remained, the charlatan, the milksop, living without motion or purpose yet unable to unclench his hands from the decanter._

_Afraid._

_There was no place for him. When his body was not found the likely 'honorable death' given his assumed name would be recanted, his trickery revealed, and the papers would scream scandal from the headlines. To return to London would be asking for the police or the Camorra to fall upon him like mad dogs. Already the less-than-reputable newspapers had carried alarmist whispers of his return (as they had in the quiet hopes that Holmes, too, was alive) and the sharp eyes of the lower class -- his only safeguard in a world where the rich muttered his name in abject disdain – would be watchful and eager to expose one both and not of their own. Neither could he flee to the country. The temptation to return to his previous habits was far too strong, and he had come so close to exposing himself before . . . Melbourne would likely have heard word as well. Perhaps France? _

_He opened the cigarette case again, studied himself once more, intently. He was talented with disguises but his face was far too well known for it to hide him long, especially if . . . he closed the case, chasing off the thought, turned the case over in his hand, considering it absently. It was not particularly well made, the silver poor quality, likely from one of East London's many fences. But it was cared for, polished, and on the back he felt the slight ridge of an engraving. In the grey light of dawn, he could dimly make out)_

A douse of freezing water woke him.

Skinner gasped, spluttered, droplets of water running a rill from his eyelashes, his chin. Shuddering, coughing brokenly, he raised his head and met with child's wide, black eyes, a tin pail clutched in her hands.

"What are you--?" A second pail was produced, and she had doused him in a second shower before he could even cry out. As he gasped and choked, the strange child whispered to him in rapid, foreign prattle, gesturing wildly with harsh enunciations of a strange tongue that belied a saccharine voice. She was no more than ten, olive-skinned, dressed in a silk pinafore, golden bangles wrapping her thin wrists and ankles, raven hair piled in twists upon her head and littered with jeweled pins. Convinced he was still dreaming, Skinner closed his eyes and attempted to slip back to sleep. A moment of unresponsiveness from the thief and the girl grabbed his shoulder, shook him roughly.

Skinner looked up with petulant irritation, and he growled. "_I can't understand you._ If you've been sent by that fucking--"

The girl startled, waved her hands in a motion for silence, her head cocked, listening. A dozen seconds of continued silence and she pursed her lips, stomped her foot in aggravation, making the bangles tinkle with a brassy sound. A dawdled, uncertain moment and she brought her cupped hands forward, opened them. Inside her pale palms was an iron key.

In the same moment she was fluttering beside him, pulling at the manacle encasing his left hand and jamming the key into the lock. It released with a shrill, rusted shriek; an accompanying thud ran out from down the hall. Both of their heads jerked up.

A second clamor, followed by a shout. Like a startled bird the child was in motion; she abandoned her task and bolted from him. Skinner snatched out at her with his free hand but she slipped from his grasp. The bamboo cell door swung shut, the lock snapped with only his startled protest, "Wait--!"

The hall was silent. He was once again alone.

Skinner laid his head back, closed his eyes, and ran his free wrist over his brow before turning his hand over and opening it. Two of the girl's hairpins lay in the invisible palm. Putting one between his teeth and taking the other to the remaining manacle, he muttered, "Just like old times."

* * *

Once again, my most sincere apologies. I'll try and get caught up with replies as soon as possible. Next chapter, we'll finally meet that mysterious fourth man and catch up with Sawyer and Marlow. . . and perhaps some Jekyll? It remains to be seen. :)

To my anonymous reviewer:

**bloodstoneteres**: Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked Mina, since she's a bit of a walking paradox. I was afriad I might have pulled Skinner out of character a bit, so I'm happy you liked the interaction. And feel free to coddle me, really, I don't mind . . . XD Thanks again for the review!

If you aren't too upset with me, I would love to hear from you!


	13. Chapter 13: Between the Motion and Act

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 13: Between the Motion and the Act

* * *

The bloated orange sun hovered low, suspended over swollen gray waters, the lagoon's turbulent waves grown sharp as obsidian blades. Marlow did not allow himself the breath for prayer, the luxury of either hope or pessimism. His mind was clear and thoughtless, intent only on his task, the rhythm of locomotion. His shoulders, back and arms strained to propel the six-foot boat through the rough water as the waves tossed it as nothing but a toy, water sloshing over the lip of the wood, seeping through hidden cracks in the grain to drench mariner to the bone. Marlow took only perfunctory breaks needed to bail out the briny water, to glance at his surroundings to assure the treacherous sea had not thrown him astray, all the while cursing the interludes ferociously as, resting, his craft was dragged ever further back towards a distant shoreline, one gradually disappearing into the invading sea.

The sun was soon setting, a yellow eye nearly kissing the blanket of water. Muscles screaming, limbs trembling and stiff with exhaustion, his mouth flooded with blood from clenching his tongue between his teeth, Marlow forced on, lost in the brutal monotony of his task. When the craft lurched into an abrupt stop with the sound of splintering wood he turned with vague, quizzical recognition, as if in a daze, and looked upon the crushed bow with bleary eyes.

The black rock wall towered before him, stretching to divide the horizon.

Galvanized, the sailor burst into motion, leaping from the small boat and onto the outcropping even as his arms seized; he buckled, fell fetal on the wet rock, let out an agonized scream as the muscles contracted spastically with bolts of blinding pain. A swell broke on the opposing side of the crag and white spray gushed through the trenches in the rock, drenched him, drove him back to the shelf of the formation, as if to drag him back to the sea, to the boat that had already drifted a hundred yards towards the barbed icon of the island. Marlow scrabbled for a handhold with pain contorted, blistered hands as the ocean roared around him. He dragged himself to his feet, pushed back the curtain of soaking black hair from his eyes.

The next wave exploded over the rock and came through the fractures in a waterfall; he threw up his hands and was driven to his knees. As soon as it abated, he staggered up and began to run, his footing slick and unsure; the sailor leapt over the ravines of whirling white water that separated the chains of outcroppings from the mountain, and dear God if he should fall-- Once reaching the primary range, Marlow raced in a stumbling pace up the side of the sierra, and came to mount the jagged spine of the rock wall. Dishwater grey, turbulent, ebbing and swelling as if on rollers, the ocean's building waves crested with white foam of murderous discontent -- the waves rising, working into a tremulous frenzy, slamming into the mountain in violent suicide, and the force of them seemed to rock the earth beneath his feet.

He ran, sharp, cloying breath knifing in and out of his lungs, his legs driving across the slippery surface of the rock, and when the shock of the waves knocked him from his feet his flesh shredded like paper. He ran, searching for the silver ship Sawyer had promised he'd see as the water swelled and swelled, some suppressed voice rising with each mounting wave to whisper the lunacy of the panorama, the situation, growing louder each moment Marlow lost a bit more will to quiet it. For there was no time, no time, and he would never reach it--

And there, as he climbed a jagged spur, was a cross framed against the sky, the torn fabric sail flapping in the sea bourn wind. As he watched, a massive wave crashed into the mountain and the idol fell in disorder, the fragile wood was shattered on the rock.

And so the furious sea swallowed the remains of _The Palestine._

Marlow kept running.

* * *

The change was so sudden, so slight, that for a moment Nemo could not identify the disturbance in the ambiance, and he looked up from his worn hands in incomprehension. The other three men had fallen into a hush as well and the room was eclipsed with stillness, save for the thrumming of automatic activity, the affect of heat and additives and light that left the chemicals and samples in constant states of evolution. It was only with a small clatter from the corner that they turned, and Nemo recalled with some surprise that there were five of them, not four. The last, mute man's presence was so negligible that once acknowledged he was quickly forgotten; presently their fifth was shock still, head cocked, features that, while still cloaked in shadow, were rigid with lines of intensity. Clarification to the discrepancy came then -- his violin had been set upon the small table beside him.

Robur's bullish features pulled into a frown at the interruption; he crossed his thick arms over his immense chest, turned his burly figure to issue a severe glower across the room. "What is it?" He snapped gruffly.

The figure raised a swift, angular hand, snapped curtly, "Wait."

They stalled, glancing between each other in shared mystification, tense in expectation . . . for what? Nemo knew not. As the charged silence persisted, the sound of the chemical brews grew into an orchestra, accompanied by the gas lamp's hissing, the rasping of water surging through hidden pipes, the irregular sounds of their breathing: Robur's bellowing inhalations, Moreau's torpid breaths, Challenger's gruff, impatient inspirations. All were punctuated by his own even respiration, the heavy, dull throbbing of his metronome heart, and somehow amidst the chaotic symphony, a slight metal picking emerged to the forefront.

Nemo turned to watch the door in uneasy expectation, and taking his queue, the other scientists followed suit. A minute or more and the lock clicked, the golden handle rattled, and turned. The door swung open.

It revealed an empty hallway.

Challenger's deep brow furrowed, and his words were explosive in the silence. "What in the devil--?"

As the other three baulked at the empty doorway, Nemo felt a slight, disbelieving smile pull at his features. "Skinner, I thought you'd been killed." With the words the wary, puzzled eyes of the other men turned to the captain, just to flicker back when, as if acted upon by a counteractive draft, the door quietly closed.

"I really should 'ave let myself get caught with you, Nemo." Replied a slightly hoarse, bodiless voice. The three scientists instinctively baulked, their eyes tracking around the perimeter of the room in bewilderment before settling back on the doorway with expressions of astonished comprehension. Nemo began to notice too that Skinner wasn't quite invisible – a red haze drifting across the room made the subtle impression of a chest, a head, an arm; a very slight coat of dust revealed a human frame. "You made out pretty well, considering."

"My God, Griffin is it?" Moreau murmured finally. "I'd heard--"

"While normally I'd be the first to assure you that nutter is quite dead," continued the omnipresent voice, "in view of present company I'm a bit wary of absolutes." One of the chairs near the door dragged further into the room, creaked. "Give me a minute, eh? Running from dinosaurs and insane chinamen tends to take the bite out of a chap."

Nemo was quickly at the invisible thief's side, an urgent hand on the ghost silhouette of Skinner's shoulder. "How did you manage to escape?" He urged severely, his tone fallen grim. "What of the others? Are they--?"

"Dinosaurs?" Challenger demanded sharply, taking a blind step towards the chair. "What are you talking about, dinosaurs?"

"It's a long story," Skinner muttered flippantly to the perplexed, eager face of the thickset scientist, and the resonance of his voice turned to Nemo, "but the short of it is Sawyer—"

Nemo's ghost of a smile solidified. "So you've found them."

A dry chuckle. "Well, there's no time to go into details. I've unfortunately lost a bit of my bearings in transit, but the Nautilus should be in port by now and I'd prefer if that wog doesn't get wind of it before we're on board."

"The Nautilus is free?"

"Yes, well, with any luck. I'm not going to contemplate what's going to become of us if it isn't. But really, Captain—"

"Dinosaurs." Challenger muttered, his thick, hairy hands threaded together, and in a moment his stout figure had fled from the foyer of the room, back towards the laboratory. Nemo took little notice, his features creased with ambivalent disquiet.

"Mr. Skinner, _who,_ exactly, is steering my ship?"

The conversation had been punctuated with the sounds of metal scraping, glass tinkling, the slamming of cabinets and drawers. Upon the realization of what the arrival of the invisible man signaled, both Moreau and Robur were in a frenzy of activity, the willowy scientist gathering gelatin Petri dishes, pill jars and phials of fluids into a satchel; all he could not carry was swept to the floor and shattered. The remains of the ruined animal were sprinkled with lye, and accompanying a putrid odor, the carcass began to foam. Robur had gathered his scrolls of notes and blueprints; bent, they flopped from his pockets like paper tongues. The rest of his papers had been piled into a wastebasket, and with an air of finality, the aeronaut dropped a lit match onto the pile. The lip of the container was soon licking with orange tongues, black filaments of ash rising from the pyre. Robur stood as if transfixed, watching his work burn. Challenger had also retreated to his metal table, was muttering to himself with explosive exclamations, fluttering madcap over his insects and bones.

"Charlie something. Nice enough chap." The invisible man barked out a harsh cough. "Could I trouble you for something to drink? Laudanum if you've got it, my 'ead is splitting—"

"So fate decrees we should finally meet."

With the declaration, their last member emerged from alienation.

He was tall, thin but strongly built, an English gentleman dressed in a tweed suit, and in approach his movements were quick, fluid, energetic. His features were aquiline, nose Roman, and though his countenance betrayed the pale gaunt of both exhaustion and addiction there was an enduring liveliness and wit radiating from beneath the high brow. He came to stand before the chair in which Skinner rested, offered a bottle of the tonic. "Through rumors of your demise were most convincing, I'd almost resigned myself to belief."

The statement was meant with a pregnant pause, one that persisted for so long Nemo half wondered if the invisible man had fled.

"I could say the same of you." Finally came the slow, cautious reply. A small smile was playing across the extraordinary stranger's austere, lean features, a twinkle emanating from his pewter colored eyes. He extended a bold hand to the empty chair, and it hovered a moment inert before the skin compressed slightly, and the limb moved in the easy rise and fall of being shook.

"And I'd really considered us old friends," Skinner's guarded voice had taken an impish note, "my dear Sherlock."

The man smiled, nodded to Skinner, and then turned to Nemo, offered the same hand. Nemo took it warily. "I must apologize for my earlier behavior, Captain. My introduction is long overdue. Sherlock Holmes." He gripped Nemo's hand tightly and offered a shrewd nod, withdrew just as abruptly. "Unfortunately, in instances of mental ennui, I have the singular vice of languor from which little can excite me. Ah, but now . . ! Though I'm afraid you're valiant rescue will be of no avail." The detective redirected his words to the thief. Skinner had accepted the bottle offered and it floated above the chair, tipping, spilling fluid that gradually vanished. "If you were planning on following the drafts from the ventilations they are contradictory, marred at every turn with feigns. I say this with personal experience."

"Your confidence in my abilities is truly touching." Skinner quipped archly. "But I'm offended that you would assume my reliance on such _simple_ means." He put the nearly empty bottle down. "All right, let's be off. No time to dawdle. Though perhaps if you 'ad a jacket I'd be a bit better guide . . ."

"That's that, then." Moreau muttered in conclusion, and threw the satchel over his thin shoulder as he moved to join the other men. Nemo had removed his robe and offered it to the thief, who stood and slipped it over his shoulders with thanks. Holmes was still smiling.

"It seems we have much to talk about."

Skinner snorted slightly. "Trust me, old chap, if we manage to somehow survive this I promise to be a fountain of enlightenment."

"I shan't be going with you."

The group of men turned. Challenger was standing at one of the tables, a yellow bone in his hands, his eyes bright, feverish. His words were heated. "I have long hypothesized that under the right conditions it would be possible for prehistoric beings to have survived the catastrophic events that lead to their extinction. And now -- Gods, why did I not see it?! -- No, I will stay. The acts of this doctor fellow, not matter how despicable, pale in comparison to the gravity of scientific discovery we stand at the precipice of. This could revolutionize Darwinian theory! It could shake the very foundations of scientific law! Generations will laud the name George Edward Cha—"

Challenger dropped like a stone. Robur, behind him, tucked the raised electric torch into his pocket. "Enough of that." He reached down and picked the much smaller man up, and threw him over his shoulder like a bag of flour. "Now if you would -- Skinner, was it? -- kindly lead the way."

* * *

Fury.

Circles upon circles, through jungle and valley, into a hollow where the scent pooled, stale; he had ripped the boards from their moorings, slashed canvas, strewn rubble with screams of rage, tearing through boxes of ammunition and snapping guns as if they were timber. In his fury he'd broken from the meandering trail, torn through the clusters of jungle in wrath and through a gaggle of creatures, slaughtered them like lambs, and their very human screams had appeased him. The hunt left him satisfied but exhausted; he retreated to the riverbed to drink and in sublime ecstasy had found it again, hanging like a tangible cloud in the air, pungent and amplified by the water.

Fresh.

He sloshed through the waterway, unmindful of the leeches or rat-sized mosquitoes. He was so very close.

So very close.

_(The streets were flooded, ladies in softly hued satin dressed and white gloves soothing beads of perspiration from their powdered brows with perpetually fluttering fans, men in charcoal suits tucking brass opera glasses into their waistcoats, replacing top hats upon their heads as they hailed the night, hands upraised and open-palmed, the universal salute to the sweltering daylight's retreat. The theatre torches had been snuffed and the rosy light of the sun's parting kiss touched the shingled rooftops; the shadows streaked the white faces with the night's phantasmal cipher. Hansom cabs rattled in a steady stream, divisive between he and the outpouring crowd that murmured romance and affluence, cane taps and frou-frous marked with peals of laughter._

_He had so loved the theatre._

_Henry was in his best dress, golden cufflinks in his shirtsleeves, his suit starched, pressed, the ebony black startling against the paper white of his collar. The watch in his pocket, one of the few artifacts of his previous life, was shined and polished. Had he ventured into the throng he would have been quickly accepted, even welcomed; he was, after all, one of them. And yet he could bring himself no closer, could not cross the cobblestone chasm that separated he and they. Even so far from home and those he knew he could not muster the courage to immerse himself within the familiar aura, the picturesque civility and indulgences that he had once endured discontent; not even for one night, one act . . . and yet he was drawn to them as a starved child to the sight of a feast, to breathe the rich cigar smoke and musky perfume, to soak with wretched eyes the colors, the sweet smiles of the young ladies as they passed him, apparently unperturbed by his monstrous features. He often smiled abashedly, offered nervous nods and was met with girlish titters he knew not how to interpret. He came to watch the parade ebb and flow between scenes, to close his eyes and feel the vibration of the sweet music beneath the soles of his shoes, to hear the echoes of tremulous chants and the sultry sweetness of stringed chords, the calamity of thunderous applause rise from the domed roof like a chorus of the divine. To allow himself, for a moment, to digress . . ._

_But tonight was different._

_She was an idol carved from marble, in a crimson dress far too lewd for even the most audacious of French fashions (and the hems, too, were frayed), eyes darkened, lips glossed and pouted in an almost laughable caricature had it not been displayed with such sincerity, the waves and shrugs she gave the passing men too conspicuous to be coy; likewise, the eyes of the nouveau riche slid over her as if she were merely an appendage of the street itself, of no more consequence than the light post under which she stood. He had watched her for days, noticed her absently from afar as she came to linger, to watch the crowds, to take the socialites – thin, rotund, ruddy-faced, balding, it hardly mattered – to the dark alleyways that festered between the buildings like brick-mould. He watched her, and something putrid in him stirred._

_He had remained in Whitechapel for three years, hidden amidst the unwashed masses of the East End as his name slowly slipped from the front pages of the newspapers and from the gossiping crowds, to fade from memory like a sun-bleached photograph. In that time he had carved out a simple living for himself, an anonymous doctor among the throngs of charlatans, providing care for the destitute: immigrants mangled by machinery, feverish orphans . . . prostitutes with sores. It was good work, honorable work, a task that would have made his heart full had not so many of the latter subsequently fallen under his same tender hands._

_With his chemical prowess a replacement for the salt was found eventually, though he damned every moment of labor as means which drove him to unbearable, insatiable ends. The revised potion was sustainable, the chemical composition changed but not greatly. Whatever time Hyde had spent loose and uncontrolled after his 'death' had apparently drained the effect of the previous concoction from his system, and his more agreeable body was once again constant. The time he lasted in his other form was predictable, manageable. The addiction, the ever-increasing ferocity of his rages, was not._

_As Hyde, he tried to cut the women's throats before his passions overtook him – to spare them his tortures, he often rationalized in retrospect and lauded himself for the small humanitarian act, though it was more likely to avoid any banshee shrieks that would bring his sport to a premature end. Three years he spent in London, waking up countless mornings in his flat with blood on his hands and dotting his collar (and perhaps a half-eaten heart in his pocket, or a mason jar of wine preserving a kidney), rancid memories plaguing his mind while young voices from the streets shouted headlines promising unimaginable horrors._

_And the called him The Ripper. It was only when Hyde began to tear the women limb from limb that he fled in fear of retribution._

_He escaped to France, roamed the countryside a vagrant. In changing, madness descended upon him like a fog as the potion took its hold, as his body rent itself into an ever-altering monstrosity. As control, as reason slipped like grains of sand through his fingers, as in the aftermath of every return transformation he saw Henry Jekyll changed within the mirror to become more of the monster, he found himself withdrawing more and more, clinging to all that he was and fleeing from the violence, erecting a wall between he and 'Hyde' in some desperate attempt to retain some semblance of sanity. Until watching the horrors of his other became something like watching a scene in a stage play, until his disconnect became so profound that he no longer considered himself to be the perpetrator of the horrendous crimes, and no longer had even the barest whispers of control in their unraveling. Until Hyde had become something of a sovereign being._

_And they called him L'eventreur du Sud-Est. Until a man – by no means good or just, a violent lunatic and otherwise unfortunate victim of circumstance – was arrested for his crimes, and he was forced to flee once more, to change his modus operandi so he could continue to satiate Hyde's abominable tastes._

_"Bonjour." Skirts brushed against his leg and he withdrew, stammered without producing any cohesive statement. The woman smiled. It was not the expression of a world-worn tart, the necessary simper while business was curtly and discreetly discussed just to be as prosaically executed, the sort of aloof manner that had so often reduced Henry into a stuttering mess (which served to warp the smiles of feigned, weary allurement to pity, the same pity that made so many follow him so trustingly). No, there was something reptilian in the curve of the woman's voluptuous lips, something contemptibly wanton, an ugliness that radiated from the milky countenance that was at first glance virginal, jejune. She had once been beautiful, staggeringly so, but her face had been mapped, disfigured by pockmarks across her rouged cheeks, her snowy jaw line. Ruddy gold hair was swept up from her neck but for a few stray curls that dropped to her shoulders, and unable to help himself Henry brushed one, rested his damp hand upon her sculpted collar. He felt the steady rhythm of her heart beneath the skin. The woman's gloved hand closed over his own. "Comment t'appelles tu?"_

_He was as if an exposed nerve, her husky voice abrasive against his tender ear, the aroma of her cheap perfume a fog that flooded his senses and left him swooning, drugged and smothered, lost in the still pools of those strange, carnivorous eyes, eyes that so reminded him of those that stared back at him from the mirror-face, eyes that siphoned his last reserves of pity or trepidation. He was aware only of the rising heat in the pit of his belly, the headache building behind his eyes, the desire to close his hand around her neck and _squeeze_—_

_Of the ravenous hunger, clawing through him like a drowning rat._

_"Henry." He muttered, and withdrew his hand with a spasm._

_"Enri." She purred as she moved closer to him, undeterred, peered up at him through the veils of her lashes, her white neck arched, exposed, smooth as ivory. He shuddered. She pressed her cheek to his; he felt her hot, moist breath against his ear, felt every rapturous movement of her lips as she sighed, "Je m'appelle Nana."_

_The contact was abruptly broken and Henry reeled; the woman lowered his hand from her clavicle, took it with a firm grip and began to lead him back into the alleyway. He wandered after her in a daze only to stop sharply, and, with a nervous glance to the vanishing sun, to the empty street around them, he stuttered, "No, No, Mademoiselle . . . ah, m-mon appartement, s'il vous plait . . ."_

_And she followed him thoughtlessly to a derelict flat in the Rue Morgue.)_

* * *

A bit late, as usual . . . (sigh) But I promise this won't become the norm. Congrats to everyone who guessed our dear Sherlock as the mysterious man! And I want to thank all of my reviewers for their lovely comments and for being so patient. Due to overwhelming requests, I included Jekyll in this chapter, and I think it turned out rather well, if I do say so myself. ;) Next chapter: more of the same, it looks like, with Jekyll, Nemo, Skinner, and a bit of Sawyer and Marlow. And don't worry about Mina, she'll make an appearance soon enough.

And not that it's terribly important, but the aforementioned prostitute is Nana, from Emile Zola's _Nana_ (1880).

To my always appreciated anonymous reviewers:

**Bloodstoneteres**: Thank you so much for your very kind review! I admit that I've written multiple character fics for other fictions (under different accounts) and never managed to handle the characters equally (I always ended up favoring one). I tend think I'm more successful here because I love all them equally. XD So sometimes I think it's just about finding the right fit. And as much as I'd love to take credit for Skinner's complex past, I am basing him off of a literary character . . . but it'll be a bit before that becomes important. :) Thanks again, I'm very glad you're enjoying it.

**Animelvr**: Thanks for the review! Indeed, Skinner was in the war, the Boer war to be exact, which was waged 1899-1902. Of course, this means I've had to take a few liberties with the movie timeline . . . but you forgive me, right? :) Thanks again!

I always love hearing from you all!


	14. Chapter 14: The Emotion and Response

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 14: Between the Emotion and the Response

* * *

Challenger's torch proved most useful in illuminating the cavernous labyrinth of corridors, the light exposing the strange, rank growths as bloated pockets of mould seemingly fit to burst at the slightest brush. Artist's fungus clung to the walls like oversized clams, bizarre toadstools (of every shape and classification: turkey tails, puffballs, earthstars, destroying angels, false and common morels) in gruesome reds, putrid greens, flaky browns and grays peppered the ground and walls in an extraordinary forest of unique, petrifying beauty. But the light also served to reveal a clear passageway between the saprophytic horrors, and the presence of the white, manufactured light seemed to allay the instinctual terror and helplessness that such terrible surroundings naturally engender. The halls were all staggeringly uniform despite the fungal life, and with each turn it was impossible to tell if they were not in fact backtracking. They wandered as if lost men through the woods, and Skinner could feel the skepticism and severe anxiety of the men he lead weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Skinner's mind, though, was wholly fixated upon the singular, basic task of keeping his battered body moving. His teeth were clenched on the insides of his cheeks, his nails biting into his palms, the alternating flares of pain were enough to keep his wandering, fatigued mind coherent. He paused often, put his head in one hand and gathered his strength, thinking whether it the sixteenth or the seventeenth corridor to turn--? And there was Sawyer and Marlow, undoubtedly preparing some Camelot charge at the fortress in response to his prolonged delay (for how many hours had he been in this veritable grave? Days, even?), not to mention the line of dithering men behind him muttering, "Why are we stopped--?"

A hand at his back roused him from his reverie. He turned. Nemo's hard eyes were then soft in the harsh torchlight, the expression in his leathery, weathered countenance troubled.

"You're feverish." He said softly, too low for the others behind them to hear.

Skinner blinked slowly, shook his head. "Wot?"

"I noticed in the laboratory." The captain said gently. "And that cough—"

Skinner jerked away from the other man, muttered tersely, "I'll take some bloody aspirin on the boat."

"What's the problem?" Robur grumbled, shifting Challenger's body from one massive shoulder to the other, the electric torch's beam wavering with the motion. The aeronaut's bullish face was puckered in a discontented moue as he muttered to Holmes in clear exposition, "One would think that being guided by someone keeping such esteemed company as yourself, o master detective, we might have some blasted chance on our hands, rather than be saddled with yet another insufferable ass--"

"You're beginning to resemble your burden in speech, Robur." Holmes quipped flippantly, but his gaze too turned to Skinner, a clear question in his gray eyes. Skinner caught it and bristled. The thief's expression, though invisible, soured.

"Well if you lot are finished chopping a pal's knackers off, we might get on with this--" He cut himself off, dissolving into a raucous fit of coughing that bowed his whole body with the ferocity, and the invisible man buried his mouth into the crook of his elbow to muffle the sound. Nemo grabbed his other arm to support him in his half-swooning state, and Moreau, the closest to the other two, hissed,

"For the love of God keep quiet, you'll get us all killed—!"

And as his body was buckled with the fit and the hallway filled with the sound of his barking coughs, further down the dark tunnel came scuffling, signs of movement. Robur flicked the torch off and they were inert in the darkness. Skinner finally lapsed into silence, his spent body leaning heavily on the captain's shoulder as he regained his breath with sharp gasps.

The sounds, in response, did not grow fainter but closer, the footfalls louder, the rustling of the growths being brushed aside, so near it seemed to be coming from everywhere in the suffocating corridor. The muted clatter was indistinct, however, for though the halls were empty they were not soundless, filled the constant spitting and crackling of the dim flambeaus that were suspended on the walls, the whispered of the ventilating drafts, the gentle hiss of soil trickling from around the bamboo support beams. But it seemed, in the coarse silence, that the sound of knives being drawn from their scabbards was just perceptible, of knuckles cracking, muscles tensing, the panting of sour breath down their backs. In the flickering red firelight perhaps a shadow revealed a man for split moment, too quickly for it to be recognized as either a trick of the eye or a reality, of imagination or . . .

In blind twilight, Moreau clutched his satchel to his thin, sunken chest with an expression that was grim. Holmes had turned to face from whence they came, regarding the hollow black artery tensely, ready to meet its inhabitants with hands curled, slightly upraised, though with the posture and grace of a gentleman. Nemo was unmoving, his head cocked, listening, straining to hear beyond Skinner's stertorous respiration . . .

Robur, with a sharp snort, announced, "The devil with this." And before the universal cry of negation could be voiced he turned the torch back on, and the corridor was flooded with white light.

* * *

Night was coming.

It had begun to rain, the droplets coming in first an easy drizzle that had culminated into a steady cascade, and the accompanying winds proved to force the waves higher, harder against the rocks. Thunder crashed, and the world trembled.

". . . please . . . listen to me . . ." Marlow gasped raggedly. The last bit of his strength had long since been expended. Once he had crowned the rock tower that overlooked the marooned Nautilus he had spared not an instant to admire the ship that was such only in name, taking only the briefest second to register that, from a distance, the ship more resembled a flawless knife blade wedged crookedly against the rocks than any other vessel he'd ever seen. He had bolted down the treacherous mountainside, feeling as a racehorse whose heart was about to burst--

The moment his feet had touched the metal of the slanted deck, the door of the black conning tower had flung open, spilling a throng of men of every origin imaginable, revealed familiar only in their common white uniforms. The way their faces turned proved them openly disappointed. A moment more, and Marlow was staring down the barrels of a dozen air rifles.

". . . there's no time . . ." He was on his knees, having no longer the strength to stand. Breathless, drenched and trembling, the sailor retrieved the pearl-handled colt from the pocket of his trousers, offered it wordlessly to the men regarding him through the veil of rain. The ocean was still rising around them, surging and swirling at the base of the cockeyed Nautilus; with a metal shriek the ship lurched, nearly sent all those standing from their feet.

One man stepped forward from the group. He was shirtless, European and sinewy in body, his sable eyes intense and brooding as they scoured over Marlow's prone and abused form.

"Mr. Sawyer sent you?"

"Jack—"

He raised a silencing hand. Marlow swallowed hard, nodded. A motion from the half-dressed man and the mariner was hauled by rough hands to his feet. Marlow braced for the worst (he was ready to take the damned thing by force, by God) but it was unneeded; he was gingerly helped out of the rain, and into the conning tower. The questions came in a torrent.

"Are we to send another party?"

"What of the Captain?"

"Where are Mr. Sawyer and the rest? Why haven't they returned with you?"

The man called Jack was at his shoulder, and when he spoke his low, even voice quieted the others. "I am Broad Arrow Jack, the bo'sun of the Nautilus." He said, looked at Marlow with eyes not completely trusting. "Who are you?"

Marlow only shook his head. "Please . . . the helm, quickly . . . we haven't a moment to spare." Without question, perhaps reading the harried desperation in his voice and manner, Marlow was briskly helped down the conning tower's ladder, and lead into the bridge.

For a heartbeat, Marlow paused in the arched doorway, frozen in abject mystification at the advance machinery, the metal topographical map, the beauty of the captain's desk and its gleaming brass instruments. As he watched, an order was given and the massive panel before the steering wheel slid open, revealing a panorama of the waves crashing on the rock wall.

"Electric." Marlow gasped. "Who could have but dreamed . . ?"

Another shuddering lurch and Marlow stumbled. Wakened from his musing, he flew to the wheel, allowing his fingers to skate for a moment over the exquisite silver before taking hold of the finely engraved spokes. Forgetting his weariness and anguish, he took a position well known, well loved (one he though he would never have again), and though the place was unknown to him, the impression was the same. Confident, in an even, sage tone, he commanded, "Raise the anchor, cut any tethers. The course is to back and fill, then bear down. At my signal, give all power to the port screws, not before – she should be silent as a grave until then. Once we've cleared the reef, full speed, all engines."

The bo'sun nodded, and retreated; his shouted commands could be heard from below. A moment later, there was a soft hum as the engines warmed.

Marlow breathed deeply, licked his parched lips. As he stood motionless he felt the ship begin to move, to creak as she was slowly leveled by the surging waters; the sudden weightlessness as she was lifted in a gentle waltz, first pushed further forwards, then gently tugged back to settle once again. A breath of stillness and again she was lifted, forced, pulled by the strength of the tide, yet then she remained upon a cushion of water and, with Marlow's gentle suggestion, her bow began to turn.

The sea clasped her, rocked her in an increasingly violent motion, first forward, and then she was dragged back--

"FLANK!"

* * *

The engines roared to life.

Sawyer was chagrined to admit that his valiant retrieval of Mrs. Mina Harker, though initiated by the most admirable of intentions, was somewhat of a fool's errand. No watches worked on the strange island and the sun could not be seen through the leaf cover, but the spears of dappled light that managed to permeate the jungle canopy were, nonetheless, becoming more and more faint. It was easy to see that it would soon be dark.

He had no notion of how long he had hiked through the wilderness, running along the river's uneven, rocky edge. Despite his relatively swift pace, progress was slow. Though he came upon nothing more than a few small creatures that scurried away from him like rabbits, there were sounds, horrible rackets that seemed both distant and near, singular but omnipresent, the chorus of things dying and things reveling in victory. He paused during these, crouched low behind whatever could serve as cover – a bush, a boulder, a buttress root of one of the massive trees – and waited, gun half-cocked, for a confrontation. It was the third or fourth time he was forced to seek refuge that he realized that, though his gun reliable and his aim true, small bullets (though fatal to humans through ricochet) were not likely to do much harm to a creature stories tall with a hide as thick as chain mail. Thankfully, it was not something he was forced to confront.

Apprehension of the closing dusk was swiftly muted as he came upon a plain that mirrored that which Skinner spoke of – the river disappeared into the sheer cliff overlooking the marshes, and across the field he could see the derelict temple. To cement the accuracy of the discovery, on the shore, with eyes accustomed to tracking, Sawyer could see the faintest trace of blood, crimson clinging to blades of grass like drops of dew. Grinning – thoughtless of how, exactly, he was going to get Mina out of the wilderness when night was descending like a swift and heavy hand – he broke into a run, and shortly burst through the half-collapsed entrance of the temple.

"Mi--Mrs. Harker?"

No response, save his own words echoing hollowly back at him. The interior of the place was overgrown with brush and immature trees, vines snaking up the walls and infiltrating the stone like witch fingers. Part of the roof had collapsed and allowed for a pillar of light to illuminate the interior wreckage, more vines spilling over the hole to hang in stringy curtains. Sawyer pushed them aside, progressed past altars and strange, decrepit statues of pagan deities that time had rendered anonymous.

The ruin was a single chamber, high and wide but shallow in depth. The agent soon met with the opposing wall. On the precipice of disappointment, but unwilling to admit failure, he struck a match, and went to inspect the dark corners of the temple.

It very suddenly began to rain, water spilling in a steady stream through the caved roof, and the sound of the large, rapid droplets striking puddles resounded through the chamber a lonely, deafening chorus.

As spent matchstick grew in number upon the floor, Sawyer turned from the corners of the temple to the hollows and crevices caused by collapsing decay, searching apertures in the ruined stone for some place that could presumably hide a person . . .

It was futile. The temple was empty.

"Damn," Sawyer muttered, rubbing the back of his head with a bandaged hand. He had followed Marlow's instructions exactly . . . though it were possible, he supposed, that he had managed to misinterpret some landmark and had wandered off track; or, more likely, with the number of temples littering the island, Mina had taken refuge elsewhere. "Damn," he repeated. If she was not there, that meant there were endless miles of savage jungle to comb through, which could take months, if not _years_. . .

A sudden shadow fell over the agent and he blinked at the loss of the dim light. He looked up from the corner and squinted at the roof above. The rosy pink of dusk had been replaced with a subdued, thundery slate, yet there was still daylight left—

Breaths, bellowing respirations echoed through the chamber, covered by the sound of the rain to a distracted mind. Sawyer's heart leapt into his throat. He put his hand on his holstered gun and slowly turned, taking discreet aim at whatever dinosaur had happened to wander in after him—

By then his eyes had adjusted to the faint light. Sawyer's hand faltered, and he sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes came to rest on the giant form crowding the doorway of the temple.

He swallowed thickly, gave a tentative call that was barely a whisper.

"H . . . Hyde?"

* * *

Night was coming. The beasts above her stirred, opened their membranous, leathery wings and flapped them in half sleep. The dusty noise served to rouse her slightly, and with unfocused eyes she turned to observe the sun's fading rays as they touched the lip of the cave in solemn departure.

On the precipice of life, she waited for darkness.

_("It's been nearly ten years, Dr. Van Helsing."_

_She had intended to send him a simple telegram asking for his immediate presence at her home, but could not manage to resign herself so few words when her heart was so heavy, her mind so black. What had instead transpired was a long letter written in a paroxysm of anguish, a rambling transcript of the wretched happenings nearly incoherent with contained emotion, tear stains and handwriting that was little more than a ravaged scribble._

_It had brought him far more swiftly than she could have hoped. He stood across her then in the small drawing room, looking far smaller and older than she remembered, a creased hand pressed to his creased brow._

_"And do you not see that you have not aged a day?" He said finally, looked up at her with pale blue eyes bleary with tears. "Mein Gott, Madame Mina." He whispered. He took her thin shoulders in his worn hands and bowed his head, his voice trembling, "Mein Gott."_

_She pressed her face into his breast, and wept._

_"I don't understand." Mina stated finally. Van Helsing had lead her to a sofa across the room and presently sat beside her, cradling one of her hands in both of his. She broke into violent trembles occasionally and her voice more than once failed her, but she continued in a semblance of civil restraint, "We saw Dracula die. I was able to pass through the holy circle." Her thin hand absently brushed across her pale brow. "The mark branding me a demon is gone!"_

_Van Helsing remained silent for a long while, and when he spoke, his gaze was focused out the window and into the courtyard, where the spindle of the chapel's tower could be glimpsed from behind the trees. "And yet, where have you chosen your home to be? You rest on hallowed ground, as he did."_

_"I have a child!" She pressed a hand to her mouth against the protest that was both enraged and desperate. In soft tones, she murmured, "Are such things even possible . . ?"_

_"All of my knowledge of these demons I have learned in ancient superstitions, in tales passed from father to son through many generations. Of facts there are none, Madame Mina, only fears, and who in this world can see truths in man's darkest nightmares?" He stroked her hand gently, and for the first time met her eyes. "You are not dead. We have saved you from this, from such a fate worse than death. But nor . . ." He shook his head slowly, ". . . nor are you truly alive."_

_They remained in resigned silence for an eternity. It was the doctor who broke it, asking tentatively, "Have you fed?"_

_Two fingers pressed against her lips, Mina nodded. "There . . . the housemaid saw me . . . I-I tore out her throat, she would have . . . God, she was stark raving mad, who could have believe her, but . . ." Mina let out a miserable sob. "It was so sweet, doctor. And I am so strong."_

_Van Helsing had closed his eyes helplessly. "I am afraid then, there is nothing I can do."_

_"What . . . what will I become?"_

_"I do not know, Madame Mina. There are so many things I do not know. I do not know why so much time has passed without any symptoms. Perhaps it was the pure love of your husband and son that showered God's blessings upon you. Perhaps some evil force greater than that of the Count has surfaced, and is calling to you. We can only hope that this humanity you still possess will not be further compromised by the wretched blood that is now in your veins."_

_"Will I be like Lucy?"_

_Van Helsing shook his head feebly. "You seem strong, Madame Mina, and you look well. You are still human, I believe, and God willing these words are not just a foolish old man's prayer. But you are one of them, the un-dead. I am to believe you choose to rest on hallowed ground but may not, that since you have no grave you are free to move where you would. I believe that you may walk among humans as one of them. Alas . . ."_

_"The thirst." His expression broke, and he nodded. Mina's countenance stiffened, darkened. "You must kill me, Doctor." She said quietly._

_At that, the elderly doctor looked up, and a small, heartbroken smile pulled at his features. "That, dear woman, I could never do. Not for the lives of a thousand men, not even at the threat of the deepest hells could I surrender your good, kind heart." He cupped her face in his tender hands and leaned forward, kissed each of her eyelids as if she were but a small, adored child._

_"You must take Quincy." She said softly, finally. "You must take him and go away with him, and never tell me where you are."_

_"Madame--"_

_"I have sent him to Lord Goldaming's with the footman and a note that I am very ill. If he should ask, tell him that I am dead." She caught the doctor's grieved appearance and pressed his hand urgently. "If not for Quincy's sake, then for mine. I am not safe with him, doctor."_

_" . . . yes. Yes, that much I am able to do." He agreed in weary resignation. "I have failed you Madame Harker, utterly. It wounds my heart."_

_"Don't be ridiculous, Doctor." She smiled weakly. He shook his head._

_"No. I will answer for this terrible thing on my judgment day. But perhaps if I can not help you . . ." With fumbling hands he reached into his lapel and pulled out a folded note. Mina took it, read through it briefly before looking at the doctor in confusion. Van Helsing's watery eyes pierced hers._

_"I have spoken against it many times, that one must fight the unsound with the equally unsound, and that scientific truth is often not any answer at all. But these means are exhausted, and perhaps science can do for you what I could not." He nodded to the note. "This is a student of mine a few years ago, arrogant but clever, a medical man with a fascination with the fantastic. He will believe your story. God willing."_

_The remainder of his stay was in silence, for both of them knew any consolations were empty, her fate unsure but undoubtedly bleak. He simply sat beside her, holding her thin hands, and she took consolation in his presence._

_It would be for the last time.

* * *

_

Thanks very much to all of my wonderful reviewers! To my anonymous reviewer:

**Nannon**: Thanks very much. I'm very happy that you would take time out of a busy day to read this and leave a comment. It is much appreciated. :)

Comments and criticism are always welcome!


	15. Chapter 15: Potency and Existence

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 15: Between the Potency and the Existence

* * *

The whites of a thousand eyes glittered in the sudden dazzle of white light, the choke of tan bodies flooding the corridor bleached into oblivion, and it would only be a moment before the throng of dacoit and thugee regained their senses and fell upon their motley group of refugees like wolves upon a wounded lamb, or perhaps in their frenzied, murderous tide they would inadvertently burst one of the mould-bags upon the wall and bring about a presumably far more brutal and horrifying end--

These were the things Nemo saw in his mind's eye as he cringed against the hard light's wake, urgently attempting to blink his own vision into some semblance of function, if not to save his own life than at least to meet impending, dagger-bearing death with a stern and unflinching gaze. But the blindness was persistent and he remained frozen, impotent, for a handful of agonizing seconds before the characteristics of the cavernous passageway began to emerge behind a veil of color-burned spots. It was enough time for his thoughts to turn from approaching death to question why, in their persistent stagnation, no such attack had come.

Once acclimated to the illumination, Nemo found himself presented with a sight so unexpected that he remained transfixed, dumbfounded into silence.

Black, long-lashed doe eyes were squinted, blinking furiously against the glare, a small hand raised to shield them from the beam. She, too – for the catacomb before them was empty but for a solitary female child -- had been stunned by the light that blanched her into the likeness of a marble deity. The captain's first irrational thought was that she must be some phantasm, some harbinger of death (he not quite able to grasp that there were not dozens of dacoit poised in the illuminated hallway to strike), and in the diaphanous pinafore, in a halo of rapture white she had all the apparent tangibility of a wraith, she still and silent, as if a mysterious visitor in a troubling dream. As he watched, her hand fell, her shadow-streaked face smoothed with adjustment. Their eyes met, and her face became a mirror of what he felt his to be – shared astonishment marred with abstract, unspoken query.

The intermission was broken by a barked curse.

Robur had relieved himself of Challenger's unconscious body and he charged past the captain, the electric torch's beam swinging wildly with his movements. In the sudden disruption Nemo fumbled in abject bewilderment while the girl's astounded expression twisted with fury and alarm. She spat a curse and fled.

"Stop--!" In the span of a breath Robur had caught the retreating girl's mound of pinned hair and wrapped his thick, calloused fingers among the dark plaits; he yanked her back, she kicking and letting out stifled shrieks of pain, and brought the electric torch down upon her exposed brow.

It stopped short.

With an effortless motion, Holmes caught and twisted Robur's falling hand behind his back, until the aeronaut's wrist was ground between his shoulder blades. Both of Robur's grips loosened impulsively with his surprised shout of pain: the electric torch dropped to the ground, reducing the light to a pyramid-shaped spear across the dirt floor; the girl managed to tear herself from his savage grasp.

"That's quite enough."

Robur was dazed, cowed with the suddenness and severity of the arrest, but as he caught glimpses of soles of the girl's sandaled feet, his bewildered expression warped into one of comprehension, quickly followed by an ugly mask of rage. He began twisting, thrashing at the man behind him with his other hand. "Let go of me, you damned sot--!

"She's all right, chaps." At the quiet words, the row halted. Skinner had straightened from his lean against the captain and had regained his breath, though his voice was just barely a hoarse whisper, "I was in a bad way with that Chinaman and she 'elped me." He took a step towards the girl, calling gently, "You remember, don't you, lassie?"

At the sound of Skinner's voice the girl had paused at the edge of the hall, she just barely a glitter of golden bangles at the edge of the torchlight's reach. She turned and regarding the floating jacket with open surprise, an expression that quickly devolved into suspicion as her velvety eyes flickered over the rest. A few hesitating steps were made in return, and she spat in a barbed Arabic whisper, "He treats you as his guests! Do not think me so stupid as to believe you are against him!"

"We would never condone the actions of an evil man." The girl recoiled as Nemo took a step forward. His weathered palms were raised as a sign of helplessness, of entreaty, and she appeared staggered when the words were returned in her own language. "We are captives," then, carefully, "just as I assume you to be. What have we to gain by trying to trick you?"

Her eyes were blanketed with mistrust, her posture closed, but she had not continued in her retreat and Nemo took it as permission to continue. "I understand if you do not believe us, but my . . . acquaintance's brutality was enacted out of panic, not malice—" Nemo shot a glance at Robur. The aeronaut had been released from Holmes' hold with a promise of peace and was presently bent to retrieve the torch, rubbing his shoulder, shooting quietly furious glances at the ever-tranquil detective, who appeared unperturbed. "-- and I apologize on his behalf."

Nemo took a tentative step forward, and she did not withdraw. "I know you are a kind person, for you have helped my friend, and for that I thank you. I would not ask that you aid us in our flight, but--" Nemo broke off, shook his head with a small smile of self-admonishment, "What is your _name_, child?"

Throughout the speech the girl had taken half a dozen, hesitant steps closer, perhaps to better hear the captain, for, sensitive to their plight, his voice had issued little more than a monotonous murmur. After a tense moment of clear internal debate, she called in a small, tentative voice, "Karamaneh."

"Karamaneh." Nemo repeated, and smiling warmly, he bowed his head. "And I am Nemo."

She stood twisting the hem of her silk shift in her hands, her face painfully anxious. Finally, she blurted, "He is sleeping from the smoke he takes but could awaken any moment, and the guards are always wandering the corridors. You must turn off the light, or he will find you. Please--!"

Nemo turned, and said in firm English. "Robur, turn the torch off."

Robur was retaking the groaning Challenger from Moreau, who had been struggling to support the man's weight during the row, and as the aeronaut lobbed the small man once again over his shoulder (with a second, savage blow to the head that made the rest of them wince, though it effectively halted Challenger's mutterings) he fixed the captain with a skeptical stare, raising a bushy black eyebrow. "You better know what you're doing, Captain." They returned to darkness.

A wink of light from her hairpins, and the girl was gone. Moreau groaned. "Wonderful, Nemo, now she's gone to tell--"

From the mouth of the hall appeared the flickering ball of a flambeau's fire. A by-then familiar voice called in an insistent hush. "Please, I know a way out. Follow me, be quick but silent!"

Minutes passed of tense silence, of creeping along the darkened tunnels with Karamaneh's gentle urging intermittent with forced stagnation as she flitted from them to presumably secure a clear path. More than once she herded them into an empty aperture mere moments before they felt, rather than heard or saw, figures creep by, the metal of their knives catching the light in wicked flashes. Time stretched, and as Nemo was beginning to feel embittered exhaustion from the strained tension, she motioned for them to stop at what appeared to be a decrepit limestone wall. An empty sconce on the wall was pulled by the girl and revealed as hinged. Impossibly, the wall began to slide horizontally, dragged by ancient chains and pulleys, and it receded into the wall beside it like a sheathing telescope. The passageway slowly flooded with gray light.

"Hurry!"

The group of them stepped through the cobwebbed doorway, the cloud of dust and onto the small platform revealed: it a sunken stone terrace that rose into a dilapidated stairwell. From their position, Nemo could see the crown of an open archway above, a sliver of morosely gray sky. It was raining, thick droplets of water running off the crumbling balustrade in steady rills, pooling on the steps. Thunder rumbled. The group began to swiftly climb the stairwell.

Finding himself last yet unaccompanied Nemo paused in confusion, glanced back. Karamaneh remained in the secret doorway, watching their backs with forlorn, tear-filled eyes.

He reached out a hand. "Come with us, child."

Karamaneh looked up at him, trembling, her small hands clutched to the breast of her dress. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I can't." She turned, and fled back into the catacombs, the veritable door rumbling closed behind her. Nemo began to swiftly follow, and was stopped by a firm grip on his shoulder, a hoarse voice.

"There isn't time." Then, kindly, "You can't save everyone, mate."

Nemo turned, and openly flinched. "Oh, God, Skinner."

The silhouettes of Skinner's tongue, teeth and part of his trachea were visible, caked with a dusting of rusty red. They shifted, issued the word "What?" before turning to bark out another cough into the end of the empty sleeve. The invisible man raised his hand, which had likewise become coated with a yellowish, bloody fluid, and examined it offhandedly.

"Well, that's pretty." He croaked, and devolved into another ragged cough. "Come on then, the rest will be waiting." And flipping up his lapel, the invisible man stalked up the stairs and into the rain. Reluctantly, with a final glance to the concealed doorway, Nemo followed.

They emerged from the base of a massive stone pagoda, and stood on a street not unlike that which they had first encountered on coming to the island. Contrary to the first city, however, this let out into a wide expanse of beach. The waves of the turbulent sea were licking at the bases of the palm trees that littered the spread of powdered sand, flowing nearly up to the trio of stone steps that lead up from the shoreline and into the city. There they saw the other members of their troupe, Robur's wide, bullish body with Challenger's still thrown over his shoulder, Moreau's svelte, tall figure beside him. They stood in a line, staring out into the water, and Skinner and Nemo came up on their sides. Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

"There's. . ." Moreau took a step towards the swollen ocean, his voice soft with disbelief, ". . . there's no one here."

Robur issued a sweltering string of despairing oaths.

Nemo looked out, his heart having leapt from his breast to his throat. The ocean was a chaotic gray pan, the rock wall beyond it a distant blemish rising above the croppy waters and sprays of foam. There was no craft – certainly not the unmistakable form of his lady – gracing the implacable currents. Nothing but an immense sea coming in with the tide, dwarfing the thin line of men with its vastness, its supremacy, and the roar of it crashing on the shore might have been the barely discernible voice of some nameless godhead mocking them for their arrogance, their optimism.

Skinner fell into a sit on the stone steps. Revealed in the rain, Nemo could see he was resting his head against his hand. "Damn." He rasped. He turned, barked out a rattling cough and spat a string of blood.

They remained the better part of an hour, by then drenched to the bone in the warm summer rain, and it was something amazing to see the contours of Skinner's features revealed by the rivulets of water. Nemo surveyed the sea intently, searching the horizon for an unnatural line, a work of mechanical precision in defiance of nature's meandering complexion, but there was none to be seen. Finally, with a despondent sigh of defeat, Nemo laid a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Skinner, this rain isn't going to do anything for your condition--"

"Let me sit a while, mate." Skinner muttered tiredly. He looked up at Nemo, and the vague curve of his mouth pulled into an ironical grin. "Maybe we should see if we can sneak back in, eh? At least below there's no oversized lizards--" He broke off into another racking fit of coughing, it of alarming ferocity, and when he'd finally regained relative composure there were spots of bloody, discolored fluid on his hands, on the ground between his feet.

"Christ . . ." The invisible man gasped as if he'd just run a marathon. "I need a good stiff scotch after this mess . . ."

"Skinner." During their vigil, Skinner had relayed to the captain brief details of his own escape and meeting with Mina, with Sawyer and Marlow, of his infiltration of the catacombs and his planned (though hardly perfectly executed) capture, and with a dawning apprehension Nemo remembered the fungus-caked corpse. He regarded the other man with dismay. "That Doctor didn't . . ." His voice betrayed decided, firm denial, "he didn't _give_ you anything, did he?"

"Cannabis." Skinner muttered, wiping his bloodied hands on the trunk of his robe. "Drugged me, bloody ponce."

They lapsed into silence. Nemo was not quite able to quell the disquiet the conceived connection had brought, but Skinner, apparently, was unconcerned with his own condition. With a chuckle the thief pointed to their left, and far across the head of the beach Nemo could see the spare figure of Holmes rooting amongst the tall grass.

"Bit of a clockwork orange, 'e is."

"How do you know each other?"

"We don't, in the strictest sense of the word." The thief lay back against the stone paved street, his head resting in his hands. He let out a long sigh. "You know, Nemo, without all the nasty things in the jungle and the mad doctors running about, this actually isn't a terrible place."

Nemo looked at the other man, raising an eyebrow. "If I had no cause to doubt your reasoning before, Mr. Skinner . . ."

But Skinner apparently wasn't listening to him. He had come back up into a sit, muttering something about his a pain in his chest before capping it with a cough and another spat of the vile fluid. The invisible man was looking out into the grey, misty surface of the distant water, to the waves that were lapping at their shoes. "Reminds me of Italy." He muttered wistfully. After a pensive silence (in which Nemo had time to reflect that it certainly did not remind _him_ of Europe in any way), Nemo saw Skinner look over, adding in the same soft, elegiac tone, "You ever been? Other than that brief squabble in Venice, I mean."

Nemo frowned at the thief's uncharacteristically garrulous manner. "I know of her waters."

"Beautiful, aren't they? Especially this time of year. Warm as a bath. I used to call them blue champagne. It's the one artistic thought I've ever 'ad . . ." He chuckled ruefully, coughed again. "Faustina didn't appreciate it, though perhaps it loses something of its charm in translation . . . You ever been in love, captain?"

The tentative question brought with it the weight of profound intimacy, and Nemo felt discomfited, as if he had happened upon the other man half dressed and chanced a glimpse of some ghastly, enigmatic scar. And caught off guard (or perhaps unable to resist, after so long alone, the chance at rapport with another, someone he was beginning to suspect may be as solitary creature as himself) he replied just as quietly, "Yes." At Skinner's patient silence, he continued, "I was married, once, years ago."

" 'ow was it?"

Nemo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The trouble with being a sensualist, Nemo," Skinner said with a bitter laugh, "is you've got nothing real to give away."

Nemo studied the floating jacket, the tract of blood revealing something physical of the thief carefully. Skinner, who appeared to wear his heart on his sleeve, his every truss revealed in his title, in his manner, a veritable two-dimensional man of fancy that, in a layman's circumstance, presented a brazen slate, someone who appeared to require no delving to thoroughly know. And the captain realized that he didn't know Skinner at all, the first confidence coming only due to – from what he suspected with the thief's already debilitated state and the accompaniment of rambling, disjointed speech – a fever-loosened tongue.

He had often appreciated this ambiguity of his companions with wariness, having allowed them into his home with veritable open arms, asking for nothing by way of candor and giving less. In truth, he did not wish for closeness. There was no place for them amongst his world of cold steel and mechanical gears, of water and perpetual twilight; he was a man best alone, something a life of loss had solidified . . . and yet, considering the other man, he touched upon the understanding that, given their circumstances, they could not continue as they were – remote, taciturn, they both in defiance of the basic realities of human nature and that of their work. The realization, the gravity of the implication that he had not merely signed over his life and livelihood to the crown but _himself_ to imperfect men like the one that sat beside him, left him with a disconcertion that touched him to the core.

"All right, time to go." Nemo looked up. With startling swiftness, Holmes had come to stand before them. The detective was likewise drenched by the rain, though his pale, severe features were ruddy with vitality. "Captain Nemo and . . . Mr. Skinner, was it?" His gray eyes twinkled at some private joke.

Nemo shook his head. "Where are you suggesting we go, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why, to the Nautilus, of course."

Skinner grinned up at the other man. "Well, you're enthusiasm is quite inspiring . . . I'll tell you what, old boy. Why don't you go ahead and start swimming, and we'll catch up?"

"Oh, no need to swim." And Holmes bade them in a grand gesture with one long-fingered hand, "when we can take the boat."

Nemo looked out. And on the horizon, first appearing to be throng of driftwood or a few floating gulls – until one took in the distance and the size they must possess, to be seen from afar – were three black dots, riding on the crests of the ocean swells. As they watched, aided by the fierce tide, the strange invaders quickly drew nearer, and took shape.

"I'll be--" Within a few minutes three of the Nautilus's longboats were within a few hundred yards, rocking to and fro on the tumultuous swells, and they heard a coarse yell, saw arms wave in greeting. Skinner raised his own arm in a returning hail. A few minutes more and a single man had lobbed himself out of the head boat, running through the knee-high waves while the other crafts were pushed to shore.

"Charlie, I could kiss you!" Skinner called amicably as he stood, and when the skeletal, sun-bronzed man had drawn closer, Skinner threw one of the robe arms around his thin shoulders. "Bloody brilliant, mate. Bloody brilliant. 'ow could I ever 'ave doubted you?"

Marlow's sallow face flushed, his dark eyes shining brightly, though he shrugged Skinner's arm off and said stolidly, "I'm afraid I dared not bring the Nautilus in any nearer. She's free from the rocks but it would be best if she were back into open sea before the tide begins to ebb . . ."

Marlow broke off sharply as his eyes came to rest on the captain. He both paled and colored, his eyes widening, mouth falling open slightly. With a startling, sudden motion he had reached forward and clasped one of Nemo's worn, weathered hands in both of his, pressing it firmly.

"It is truly an honor, sir." He said tremulously. "She – your ship – is truly a marvel, the most incredible – but I am too presumptuous." Marlow dropped his hand suddenly, his eyes breaking away from Nemo's severe gaze. "First, I must apologize for taking your place without permission--"

"You have nothing to apologize for. A man of your valor is uncommon, Captain." Nemo returned kindly. "And I am honored to have a man of your fiber stand at my lady's helm."

"Where is Sawyer?" Skinner interrupted. He was looking at the boats, where the other members of their troupe were being ushered (somewhat loudly) in preparation for departure. When the thief apparently did not see the agent amongst the crewmembers the jacket turned, as if to regard Marlow. Marlow blanched, and he glanced around the empty beach.

"He isn't . . . here?"

"Oh Charlie, you _didn't_." Skinner groaned, putting his hands to the vague, rain-revealed silhouette of his brow. "Christ, I'll kill 'im when I get 'old of 'im. _Bloody 'ell!_" He dissolved into another round of coughing and Nemo was quick to support the other man.

"You aren't doing yourself any favors getting excited, Skinner." Nemo rebuked sharply, then turned back to Marlow, who had cast his gaze down in chagrin. "Where is he?"

"He said he--"

And, as if signaled by some cue, twin gunshots cracked faintly through the air, sounding as close as if it had been fired at their backs, and all three of them startled at the sound. A far-off flock of birds burst from a distant cusp of vegetation on the mountainside. Without dawning horror quickly smothered (_Will this madness never end?_), Nemo pushed Skinner towards Marlow.

"Take him."

Skinner turned sharply, choked, "What do you--?"

Nemo paid him no mind, directing his words other mariner as he commanded impatiently and thin aloofness, "Take him and the others back to the ship."

Skinner was not to be ignored, however, and he barked irately, "Don't be stupid, Nemo, you can't go alone."

Nemo's expression twisted, his hands balled into fists as he muttered lowly, "I'll not lose any more of my men to this wasteland, Skinner."

"You'll never make it in time." Marlow cut in. As the two men turned from their squabble to regard him, he gestured vaguely to the land behind them. "There is a river outlet not far from here. We can retrieve the Nautilus and follow it three fourths of the way into the mainland. It is dangerous, but--"

"There's no time."

"It's the only way."

Nemo sighed heavily, glanced back at the tree line. "Quickly, then."

* * *

"H . . . Hyde?"

The being he knew as Hyde (for he wasn't quite human, Sawyer reflected detachedly, numbly, but some missing link between not humans and monkeys but humans and some ancient, more primordial killer) filled the doorway, spears of fading light piercing around his frame. And in the breath that seemed to stretch infinitely between the two of them -- as if they had been transposed into some vacuum chamber distant from the rain that was falling in a steady drizzle, from the thunder that rolled lazily in the torpid evening sky, as his own heart seemed to have suddenly slowed to a crawl and the breath went out of him with a quavering exhalation – Sawyer realized that he had never quite appreciated the enormity, the sheer _power_ of Edward Hyde. Eight feet of raw strength, immense muscles swelling from a massive, broad figure, said muscles perpetually contracted, vigilant for confrontation even in stasis, as if the swollen bands of tissue were fighting one another for purchase to bone, and the enclosed veins stood out from beneath his skin like tension chords. Hyde did not move, but rippled; his immense chest heaved with explosive breaths, a line of spittle dripping from his sneered, foam-caked lips, his blood crusted teeth.

And something perversely rational in the agent protested crossly that this wasn't _right_. Hyde was a monster in every sense of the word, someone who took immense pleasure in pulling human beings apart at the seams (Sawyer had seen it happen) but he wasn't . . . irrational; he was senseless in his violence but not mindless, and the eyes that bore into Sawyer's own were not the glittering, intelligent eyes of an inimitable cutthroat but flat, corroded. The Edward Hyde _he_ knew – though admittedly, such meetings had not been often or in-depth -- was anything but taciturn, and if he meant something as theatric as murder he was hardly tacit with his intentions, cajoling it to the gods as he frolicked about in carnage as if a child in a meadow of flowers; so surely . . .

And yet . . . it was undeniably Hyde, coated in a layer of dirt, pus and blood, reeking a fetor of death, apparently ignorant of the various filth-caked wounds peppering his body or his grotesque state, his eyes blood-shot and bulging in their sockets, his trousers the only scrap of his suit remaining, and they clung to his burly legs in soiled rags. Sawyer found the image that immediately dawned upon him was a distant memory of St. Petersburg, when, years before, a rabid dog had ambled into the town in a drunken gate. Though he had not been a small boy at the time it had scared him more than anything – the deranged, filthy mongrel snapping at ghosts while its watery eyes rolled lazily in their sockets, wandering the emptied streets in broken, lunatic circles, it the picture of thoughtless, feral wrath, until Judge Thatcher had retrieved his rifle and put the thing out of its misery.

And something of the memory collided with the vision of the beast before him, and it made Sawyer's marrow turn to water. He froze, mind unhinged and wholly occupied with terror realized. He let out a quivering moan.

It was drowned out by Hyde's roar of triumph.

The beast came at him like a freight train.

Sawyer remained stationary for half a second, and with what seemed like staggering sluggishness in the wake of Hyde's incredible velocity he fumbled, clamored to his feet. By then, whatever internal wit had been clotted with dumb fear was cleared away as adrenaline hit him in a lightning bolt. Hyde's hot, foul breath was upon him; the massive, crushing hands whispered past his collar as he ducked sideways, rolled, scrambled up and bolted for the doorway. The temple shuddered as Hyde collided with the far wall, the force of the impact shaking a fine veil of grit from the cracks in the walls, the crevices in the stone ceiling. Hyde let out an enraged howl, and Sawyer would have locked up once again if not for the internal mantra screaming not to look back, to keep running--

The agent scrambled up the pile of loose rubble that marred the center of the chamber with frantic rapidity, and he tore through the curtain of vines. He had managed to drop from the mound of rubbish and had nearly made it to the doorway when he felt a vice clamp down on his shoulder, a massive, calloused hand swallowing it whole. He was spun around, and, simultaneously, the agent raised his remaining colt (the same stubborn rational mocking his jejune arrogance for sending the other with Marlow) and fired twice, panic blind.

Both shots ricochet off the far wall with a hollow echo.

The agent saw his own reflection clearly in Hyde's furious eyes before the arm holding the gun was seized and wrenched behind his back. White-hot pain grated in his shoulder; something gave with a snap. Sawyer screamed, and his suddenly useless hand lost hold of the gun.

The thick fingers of Hyde's other hand wrapped around his neck, and Hyde dragged him from his feet. With an almost offhand gesture, he flung Sawyer like a rag doll into the wall from which he had fled.

The impact of Sawyer's body brought down the temple in an avalanche of stone and dust.

For a moment, the valley was silent save for the sound of the rocks settling, a paused, prolonged, charged tension, as if the air itself were holding its breath in suspense, as the dust became a hazy fog about the ruin, as the sun slipped behind the island's highest peak and the landscape succumbed to final twilight. The peace was shattered with an incensed bellow, and blocks of debris were sent tumbling with explosive force, flung from rest by a pair of massive hands.

Sawyer fumbled in the rubble dazedly, half-buried, his face caked with white dust but for a stream of blood running from his temple. A faint shadow fell over him and he looked up, muttering, "Hyde, please--" thickly, blood pouring out of his mouth as he raised a blood-streaked arm in feeble defense. Hyde batted it aside, caught a fistful of Sawyer's hair and smacked the agent's face into a slab of stone beside him. And there Sawyer remained, limp and unmoving in a splattered halo of crimson.

* * *

Thanks very much for everyone who reviewed, and thanks for your endearing patience with me. Apologies for the late update, but I actually have an excuse this time that isn't just a flowery way of saying I'm horribly lazy. Happily, insanely, and idiotically ironically . . . I am moving to England! :D So, while it means that updates are going to be a bit far in-between due to the scrambling and stresses of moving, it also means my future stories are going to be a lot more accurate (hopefully) location and mannerisms wise. Also, I am so excited it isn't even funny. :D

So, anyways, I'll try and have the next chapter out as quickly as possible, though I can't make any promises on how long it will be (and at a cliffhanger too, how cruel . . .). But have no fear! I definitely will not be abandoning these wonderful characters anytime soon. Also, reading back, I'm a bit unhappy with the last chapter and hopefully will have semi-rewritten replacement very soon.

Also: Karamaneh is another character from the Fu Manchu series; captured by the doctor as a child, she serves as both his prisoner and reluctant accomplice, and often is the rescuer of said series' hapless heroes from Fu Manchu's grasp.

Comments and criticisms are always appreciated.


	16. Chapter 16: The Essence and the Descent

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

A/N: Well, I'm finally (sort of) settled in merry old England. Thanks to all my well wishers, and thanks to everyone for being so patient with me. I am adding a warning note to this chapter because of graphic imagery (well, I certainly hope I'm good enough for that) so readers are advised to proceed at their own discretion.

* * *

Chapter 16: Between the Essence and the Descent

* * *

_ (And God, it was like diving into a warm bath, and in the sunset it might have been a sea of wine)_

"Skinner."

_(It was 1897, years before the League, before Bond, before the war or invisibility, a limbo between play-deaths. It was late. The streets were empty but for himself and the occasional patrolling policemen; even the whores and johns -- who seemed unflappable in their ballet -- had tucked in for a night that was unseasonably bitter, unseasonably cold. It was long since light and longer still till dawn, a time that had once been his own witching hours, and the occasional candlelight shone through a gauzy curtain like a warm beckon, a sentry against dark hearts and black ruminations, against the whispers of a night that brings a man's inherent isolation closest to his heart, divulges the secrets of his brittle mortality, the little worth of his being . . ._

_He had taken to cracking again after more than a year of abstinence, his return more for the assuage of familiarity than anything material -- though a sovereign or two to augment Theobald's wages was never spurned. His ends were far from the neighborhoods he was used to canvassing, reached by aimless wandering through the slums of London, and he would occasionally raise his weary eyes to an empty window and decide yes, that one was good enough . . ._

_He found himself that night somewhat about Great Portland Street, something he would later attribute to Providence, or fate, if the two were interchangeable. As his eyes fell on the open window over head he found himself wishing . . . He had put an ad out in the paper, a quietly entreaty for knowing eyes. It had come to nothing. Perhaps it was for the best._

_He did not pause in his approach of what appeared to be a ramshackle boardinghouse, and he did not bother with the pretenses of obscurity. There was no need. He had become unrecognizable, his countenance haggard, his normally pale colouring kissed by a golden Italian sun, something that had lingered far longer than he had expected. His hair, though, was the greatest change, having faded to an iron gray from suffering, from heartache, and distantly he was reminded of a line:  
_  
Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;  
And to my guilty hand my grief I owe_)_

"Oh, Faustina . . ."

_ (He looked twenty years his own senior. But even brazen with his newfound anonymity, he was not willing to risk being recognized in surroundings more upscale)_

"Skinner."

A cool presence on his collar and Skinner snapped into a consciousness that was muddy, his body stiff, hot and cold and aching. It felt as though someone was sitting on his chest. A tan, bearded face was leaning over him and for a moment Skinner didn't recognize it, and he wondered in feverish disconnect if perhaps it was him that was applying that unbearable pressure -- eventually the fog eased and the mucked cogs of his brain began to turn; Skinner put one of his own icy hands to his brow and croaked, "Yes?"

"We've arrived." Nemo said gently, his face smooth, his normally steely eyes softened. "Are you able to stand?"

The question caught in his mind like a gramophone's needle skipping on a deeply grooved record. Skinner looked up at the other man with a furrowed, agitated expression, unable to collect his thoughts enough to make sense of the question, much less reply. In response, Nemo's mouth thinned into a line and Skinner watched with the same befuddlement as his arm was taken from his side and wrapped around the captain's shoulders. The sudden motion of the captain hauling him to his feet made him nauseous, and he was reminded of the rough undulating of the ocean, something that had seemed to last forever beneath a miserable freezing rain, the island and the ship equally distant idols in a boundless gray desert--

"What time is it?" He croaked with a sudden, lucid urgency, half twisting in Nemo's grasp. "Sawyer--"

Nemo hushed him, and Skinner's exhausted body was only so happy to be soothed back into lethargy. He leaned heavily against the captain, allowing himself to be guided up to and across the deck, down the stairs and into the womb of the ship. Figures drifted by in sluggish tides, Marlow's ashy pallor floated by with words that were tense gibberish. The captain replied likewise. They walked. The white light of the Nautilus' halls assaulted Skinner's aching eyes, and their thunderous footsteps were drowned in the clamor of the crew's, the hum and vibration of the screws beginning to turn underfoot--

_("I remember reading stories about you." Bond said with introspective intimacy, the words wistful, "All the women in Britain were half-mad with love for you, the men half-mad with envy. Ah! and that end. You burned briefly but so brightly, by God, and such a death secured your name as one to be whispered with reverence for years to come . . ." Bond fixed his eyes on the thief, who was then only revealed by a borrowed blazer and a splatter of haphazardly thrown, hardened plaster-paint, "You should have stayed dead. Time was good to your memory."_

_He said nothing. Bond placed the glass on the desk and regarded him thoughtfully. "Tell me this. Why?")_

He was being lowered into repose. The thief came alive in resistance, the pressure in his chest excruciating; Nemo relented and helped him to sit up on the edge of the bed. Skinner put his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in one hand. Nemo had left the room's overhead light alone, and the small chamber remained in blessed twilight.

"Get a chap a drink, yeah?" Nemo brought him water and two aspirin. Skinner took them, his hands shaking so badly the water sloshed in the cup. He sat, breathing sharp, shallow breaths in an attempt to ease the splintered glass pain in his chest when he felt something wet and cold drape over his neck. He opened his eyes, regarded the other man groggily, one hand coming up to touch -- a wet rag. Skinner smiled wearily.

"You're wors'n Mina, you are."

"I make an effort to repay my debts, Skinner." That confused Skinner, though after a moment he let out a sharp, barking laugh that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. He was exhausted by the time it was through, vision blurred with breathless tears, a thin line of the discharge dripping from his mouth like spittle. Skinner wiped it away with the back of his wrist, found his arm still clothed in the robe that was soaked with frigid rainwater. Christ, though, he was hot. In the same breath he was shuddering, and he shrugged the garment away, tossed it to the floor with a wet slap.

"Don't read too much into that." He muttered. "As far as I knew, you were the only one who could get this hunk of tin 'ome.'"

That was meant with silence. Skinner didn't look up to try and gage the other man's expression. There came a final, "Try to rest," and the captain turned away. With the swiftness that startled even himself, Skinner caught Nemo's wrist, halting him mid-step.

"I know where 'e is." There was a desperation to the words, and he thought--

_ (of Bunny lying barely conscious in a trench, trembling and white as snow, the strip of cloth wrapped around his thigh soaked through with crimson. Blood seeped across the dusty ground, wetted the knees of his own uniform even as he dipped his hand into the pool that was hot as a fever, and he spread the blood over his brow as if it were war paint, as if he were a warrior swearing vengeance instead of a coward seeking asylum)_

_(Without waiting for the other man to respond -- perhaps expecting no such prodding, for none would come -- Bond expounded, "Was it another ploy to dodge the Yard, an attempt at some new life like that little stunt in Italy? Oh yes, we know all about that. Or maybe a suicide attempt gone terribly awry? Despicable, really; a gentleman of your stature leaving his comrade to bleed to death in an African wasteland while he secures his own free future.")_

Skinner roughly shook his head, chasing off the fragments of febrile half-dreams, instead attempting to drag his mind to -- but Nemo had gently untangled the thief's fingers from around his forearm. "I'm afraid that in your current state, Skinner, you would be a far greater burden than boon." He lay Skinner's hand on the bedspread, and Skinner did not attempt to stop him again. A pregnant silence in which Skinner thought the captain had gone; he returned his head to the cradle of his hands. It was only a few minutes before he fell into another spell of barking coughs, and at its culmination he choked up another clot of the foul fluid from deep within his chest. A blanket, then, was draped over his shoulders. He glanced up and found Nemo's countenance marred with a myriad of emotions, and their mere presence brought Skinner to the edge of alarm: disquiet, solicitude, urgency, and with it the troubling idea that the upset seen was the captain acknowledging their presence as well.

"We will return within a few hours." Nemo said as he turned to go. "Rest."

* * *

There was pain, but it was of no more consequence than a dimly recalled memory, a nuisance without the rationale of cause. Hyde was blind in oily darkness that smelled of ozone and earth. Rivers of blue electricity cut down from the sky, and for him took flashbulb photographs: wet stones lying in piles of rubble while water ran rills from the rough corners; bushels of leaves bobbing and waving with the steady ferocity of the downpour; beneath him, a face shaded by water-browned hair, and a puddle of blood diluted with coin-sized raindrops--

_(Blood was sprayed in tattoos upon the peeling wallpaper. It dripped from the ceiling, pattered down to the wood floor already painted in disjointed crimson sickles and exclamations. One of her shoes, overturned and tangled in a blood-spotted stocking, lay beside his foot; with a little yelp Henry kicked it away.)_

The flooded river roared at a deafening octave. Cold mud caked his ankles in a rotten paste. None of these things mattered. Hyde fisted watery blood from his eyes, blew a fine spray of droplets from between his curled lips. He was waiting.

It -- he thought of him only as such, for in Hyde's mind his victim had been neutered into simply It That Must Be Killed, that which engendered in him raw fires that plagued him febrile and indistinct, tortured ghosts he could not understand and sought only to silence -- It was still, as he was in response, his frenzy tempered into equanimity by the immobile state of the other.

Lightning cut the sky in roots. The river, pellucid and white, crashed over smoothed stones while a piece of the bank crumbled into the torrential flow. Closer, caked in wet dust, a hand lay, fingers curled like a sleeping child's.

_(one pale hand dangled on a broken socket over the edge of the bed. Her fingernails were intact, and gleamed perfect pink, white-tipped ovals in the dim light. Hyde had killed her quickly, then. That was something, at least._

_She -- Nana, she called herself, Henry remembered with a sickening roll in his gut -- had in death become something hardly human, a bundle of torn skirts and shredded flesh splayed on a mattress soaked red. One leg, knee bent, rose an ivory fulcrum almost casually above the fray. Beneath it, her groin was a delta of blood. Instinctually Henry's eye rejected the distortion, unable to connect the pale hand and the pale thigh circled with plum-black bruises to the same being, until Henry realized that above the tattered ringlet of her shredded corset was her torso, skinned raw, marred by twin glistening circles of naked red muscle, her breasts sliced away as neatly as a butcher would trim a steak)_

Hyde was perplexed, and with delicacy he touched the hand with one of his, brushed the skull that rolled on a loose socket. It shifted easily, fell into another state of contortion, but without independent motion. Without sound. With a little whine of displeasure Hyde pushed Its back with the back of his hand and It flailed again, lifelessly, came back to settle still on the ground. Water fell. Thunder rumbled in disconsolate little groans.

He took a step away. He was . . .

It was a sensation unfamiliar to him, opaque and all-encompassing, and his breath caught, eyes wide upon the broken body even as his vision blurred with the invading rain.

The scent, the trail, the acts of tracking and killing were tangible, direct. Hyde did not have the cognizance to ponder the motivations of his actions; it had been simple, certain. But in success, in enacting his wells of limitless, ambiguous wrath he was . . . purposeless. And the notion of an enigmatic future, without direction -- it left him disoriented, bewildered, lacking a reason his mind failed to comprehend the complexity of save for the vastness, and he was filled with sourceless grief that welled from the same fountains of endless rage; a bitter loss at something unrealized. Hyde turned from the body before him in an explosive frenzy and slammed his massive fists into the crumbled rock wall beside him, screaming in bestial misery.

_(he vomited. Henry always did, naked, covered in stiff, dried blood, shaking, sweating, feeling weak and sick and pitiful and cursing Hyde between ragged sobs for leaving him with the mess. The thought of having to touch her cool, rigid corpse, to intimately know the gravity of his other's sadism before sulking into the darkness to dump her in some alleyway or canal like a sack of garbage filled him with a bitter, well-known terror._

_"I cannot, I simply . . . I simply cannot. Not again. Oh God--!" Henry protested, a low, thin little wail even as he got his trembling legs beneath him. He approached her haltingly and in a weaving, drunken gate, his frail arms wrapped around his own wasted body, broken whimpers escaping his clenched lips. With a quivering hand he plucked the corner of the stained sheet from a puddle of blood, and, without looking at her, his eyes screwed shut and head bent, he flipped the fabric up to cover her face._

_The sudden motion sent out a spatter of blood from the edge of the soaked fabric. The lukewarm, viscous fluid spattered across his chest, his face._

_Henry's eyes flew open, and he reeled in horror. He staggered back, fell to his knees and vomited until he thought his body would tear itself apart. Spent, he crawled into the tiny washroom, turned on a spigot that spat brown water into a cracked basin; he cupped it in his hands and doused his face._

_In the other room, Nana)_

groaned.

Hyde's head raised, at first confused by the sound intruding on his vain anguish. He turned, and regarded the body with vague, snappish impatience. It became curiosity as It moaned again and shifted slightly, eyelids fluttering, the hand coming up and quickly dropping, like a wounded butterfly attempting flight.

_(It was not quite a groan; Hyde had severed her windpipe and it was little more than a gurgled whisper of dead air escaping. Henry had, in life and in death, been a man who lived deeply entrenched in corpses, and their breathy sighs, their nervous tics did not startle or horrify him; they were the passing salutes of sentience fading from the newly inanimate, the last remnants of man's fragile pneuma escaping as one lay on the doorstep of dust. In such musings there was no poetry. He had been a doctor, once. Though Henry could not help but feel a weary dread, for if she were showing signs of decay already, Hyde had been in play for much longer than his usual hour, and the spent battles of yesteryear were undoubtedly rearing their heads once again--)_

With cautious interest Hyde reached out, grabbed the arm and yanked, dragging the body slightly from Its half buried state. He was rewarded with a louder groan. The pleasure was immediate, immense, and the previous distress was just as quickly forgotten. He grabbed It by the hair, pulled It completely from the pile of chalky rubble, and tossed the body aside with curiosity. The body hit the ground yards away, bounced, rolled, and did not move again. He followed. Finding It again unresponsive, his expectant grin fell into an expression of perplexed disappointment.

_(She groaned again. His heart shuddered to a stop._

She's alive._ Some inner voice mused with nearly amorous adoration while Henry remained frozen in the washroom. He stood leaning over the basin, cold water dripping from the tip of his nose and his trembling lips, rationalizing that Hyde was not so thoughtless, so lazy as to leave her alive, so certainly it must be a trick of his mind or surely she must at least be _dying_--_

_She moaned again, louder, and the sound possessed a whistling quality like steam escaping a kettle. The building he had chosen was derelict with abandon, the Rue Morgue having never quite recovered its repute, character still stained with the horrendous murders from over half a century before. In that time the buildings had crumbled such a state that even most vagrants avoided it. But not all, and though the building seemed deserted, it was not unimaginable that he was not so alone as he would like, oh, and the walls were so thin--!_

_Henry trembled as if wracked with chills, and the cold undercurrents of the autumn night clung to his exposed, damp skin. His hands clenched the lip of the basin, eyes wide, waiting for--)_

Another moan, growing subtly louder.

Hyde had come to stand over It once more, and he picked up a limb, cast it aside flippantly in a grotesque parody of animation. He snorted, bared his teeth when It did not make any further noise, or reply with any movement. His brow furrowed and picked up the tossed limb: an arm, limp and small within his own massive, knotted palm. The hand at the end of It's arm dangling loosely, like a heavy flower with a broken stem.

Hyde put two of the slack fingers in his mouth, and bit. Blood flooded his mouth. The bones broke like little bits of wood. With it came a black rapture and the world dipped back into its red film, and his mind was drowned in a dull, throbbing heat that permeated his every muscle, bone and nerve, and his own blood thundered in his veins; he was rewarded with not a moan but a shriek.

_(_You have to kill her._ The realization came with the suddenness and severity of an epiphany. Henry's moan drowned hers; he put his balled fists to his temples and thrashed his head like a child._

_"Oh, please, God."_

If you don't, the police will be down your throat by the time the sun is up. Someone will hear. You'll be sent to the guillotine.

_"Good." Henry sobbed. "End this travesty, this wretched excuse of an existence."_

You don't mean that.

_"Yes, by God, I would end it now--!" He rested his elbows on the small counter of the washstand, and buried his face in his hands._

But for that persistent narcissism of the 'late' Henry that you cannot seem to shake.

_"-- but he . . . he would not allow it." Jekyll dragged the palm of his hands over his streaming eyes. He looked up to meet with his own reflection in a cracked, circular mirror, and he viewed his warped countenance through a veil of dust -- a monstrous, simian face, a wicked glitter in eyes that bulged with madness. It was the first time he had seen himself for some time and he let out another little groan. Dear God, what had happened to him? What had he become?_

Then for her.

_He swallowed hard, eyes swimming. His grotesque reflection -- he? he was still Henry Jekyll, wasn't he? -- was wearing an almost gentle expression, a smile of compassion touching his(?) lips. It was the look of a friend, an expression of loving patience, of a benevolent priest accepting confession. Henry nearly sobbed with relief. He reached up to grasp the mirror's frame and leaned forward to rest his fevered brow against the cool surface of the glass. Nana's moans had become more frequent, persistent, and what he did not dare to look upon his mind supplied: her mutilated breast struggling to draw breath through her ravaged throat, her body perhaps beginning to flail with agony--_

She is suffering.

_"I-I couldn't." Henry whispered back to the mirror face. There was no horror, no fight in the words, only weary resignation, the solicitous tone of a secret-sharer. "I can't. No, no, it's him that does these things, not me. I-I couldn't--"_

You took an oath, once, to do no harm. Are you so literal to watch someone suffer, rather than to ease them into the abyss? _The voice murmured, calm despite Nana's horrible groans, and Henry found himself quieted. The words were gentle, delivered with the cadence of mother comforting a babe._ You have been Charon before, under less laudable circumstances. You have the chance here to make amends. To end some of the suffering your other has done. To show mercy, to perhaps regain a bit of your soul.

_The soft, reasoning speech, the deep tone of the omnipresent voice soothed Henry, eased the knot of pain behind his eyes and the fist of anxiety crushing his heart. His breathing slowed and he sat as if entranced; his eyes had fallen open and were glazed, his tongue flickering over his cracked lips. "Yes." he gasped, and seized upon the provided solace a drowning man who has found a handhold. "I am a good man. A good man would . . .")_

The bloody hand slipped from between his teeth as Hyde's attention became fixed on the fluttery movements of Its breathing, viewed through drunken, heavy-lidded eyes, and he, almost delicately, ran one thick finger down Its heaving chest, tearing the fabric covering it, revealing pale flesh in the opulent light, white as a dove's feather. . .

_(_Would help her. But she is beyond helping, you can see that. She will die, eventually, but it could take hours. Days, in agony. You are not so cruel as him, are you, to damn her with that fate?

_"No. No, I could not . . . I could not let her suffer . . ."_

She would thank you, if she could. Do you see that? She welcomes death, as one in so much pain always does. He is your devil, but you, Henry . . . you could be his saint. Her saviour._)_

Hyde walked his fingers down the delicate flesh, feeling the bones break under what seemed, to him, the slightest of pressures, snapping like bird bones, and with every felt muted crack It let out a little mewing cry, Its eyes coming open and shining like dark pools in the glassy light, uncomprehending but in pain. Pain, pungent in the air, and with the taste of blood on his tongue it was intoxicating, was ecstasy--

_(A pillow was half stuffed beneath the sagging mattress. Dusty, the linen stained yellow. Henry picked it up, and the subtle weight of it, the endearing softness of it, was comforting. He very suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep._

Help her, Henry. _It came from the washroom behind him, distant and hushed, _End her suffering_._

_Her barely capped eyes shined out at him like glass marbles from a mottle of flayed flesh. And there was something almost fitting in the sight of hear spread-eagle, her neck cut from ear to ear. She lay not a victim of a heinous crime but a nymph of dereliction, sunning herself in the iodine light of the paraffin lamp, the faded wallpaper her tree line and the filthy sheets her leaf litter. The blood slash in her neck seemed to leer up at him a merry grin, as if she had known this to be her end all along and was quite contended in being right._

_"Who are you?" Henry whispered suddenly, the sound breathy and slight, the sound of dove feathers in chapel rafters, and behind him he heard a dry chuckle)_

"HYDE!"

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! And thanks again to everyone for being so patient! Next chapter will not be nearly the wait. Dear God, I started this story nearly a year ago! It seems like yesterday . . .  
Anyways, thanks again to everyone! I love hearing comments and criticisms!  
And just a note, the poetry quote is from Book 10 of The Metamorphoses, by Ovid.


	17. Chapter 17: Falls the Shadow

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 17: Falls the Shadow

* * *

"They are to be kept in quarantine until I return." Nemo raised a hand. "No, Jack, you mustn't come any closer."

Hearing his Christian name uttered by the captain apparently had a profound effect upon the Nautilus' bo'sun for he did not halt, as ordered, his features set in their characteristic stoicism. His disobedience was marked, and he continued in his approach unapologetically. Nemo rubbed his aching eyes with two fingers and rested against the closed door behind him; he could hear Skinner's coughing through the thick wood.

"Please, Jack."

The echoey footsteps halted.

The captain was exhausted to a precipice that had occurred so infrequently in his lifetime that he wondered, cynically, if he wasn't perhaps getting too old for this sort of thing -- if not in body than in mind, his disposition, for once, plagued with the black anxiety of the belated cavalry, and he found himself grasping at the memories of his old acumen. Nevertheless, he had managed to keep the levelness of his voice even with the soft plea, and that was sign enough for the captain that he had still enough left to give.

"Listen carefully." Nemo put distance between himself and Skinner's quarters with long, unflagging strides even as the floor shifted beneath his feet in a drunken roll, as the ship began to turn against the tides. The bo'sun kept step, though he trailed by more than a yard. "I'll not have any member of the crew coming in contact with myself, Mr. Skinner, or the other three men we procured from the island until we can be sure we've contracted nothing communicable. You're to follow the orders of Captain Marlow until I have returned."

Jack said nothing, and Nemo had a brief, humble moment to appreciate the profundity of his crew's dedication -- and yet, even that small respite carried with it the weight of penitence, for how many had he left upon that devil's isle who would not even be granted the final decency of of burial? He repaid their loyalty with death rights by vultures in strange, friendless lands, and for himself he could find no excuse. He pushed back against the thought with impatience, for now was not the time to ponder such things, to ruminate on demons more candid and familiar than he could have ever dreamed, ones that sought to devour him and he could find no weapons with which to aptly battle, could fine no reason--

He came upon the Nautilus' small armoury locker. It had originally been intended for more prosaic means, containing a small collection of air rifles to be used in underwater hunting trips, as well as a modest number of explosives for blowing apart the ice shelves that often cut off routes in the Arctic; the latter had previously been utilized in destroying Moriarty's compound. He ignored the bombs and retrieved one of the air rifles, considering it carefully, Skinner's parting mutter ringing in his ears.

_("Watch out for the others, mate.")_

The air rifles were yet another of his revolutionary inventions, and he remembered fondly, with a brief flare of long-suffering humor, the days when he had possessed the sort of leisure time to develop such devastating weapons for the purpose of killing fish for food and sport. The bullets of the air rifles he himself had specially made, hollow-tipped yet highly penetrable, and inside each they carried a catastrophic electrical charge: if the bullet wound did not kill the animal sought, the charge itself was instantaneous and fatal. The shots were limited and only effective close-range, but they were the only thing on board capable of bringing down something of any monstrous size . . . whatever the monster may be. After a minute of reluctance, Nemo slung the air rifle over his back.

"Captain." It was Marlow. Nemo had not realized the ship had halted, his distraction was so severe; he turned and regarded the other man wearily.

"Yes?"

"I will be accompanying you."

"Out of the question." Nemo had entirely expected the declaration; Marlow too closely resembled the likes of Jack and Ishmael to tread uncharted paths, and he delivered the words with enervated resignation. It was ironic, really, the circles they managed to work themselves into. "If something were to happen, you're the only person capable of steering this ship to a safe port."

"I'm afraid it is my responsibility. I was the one who allowed Mr. Sawyer to go off alone. I'm the only one who will be able to lead you with some haste to where Mr. Sawyer is supposed to be--"

"And I have upwards of a hundred men on this ship who you have an equal responsibility to, Mr. Marlow, if not more, since you were so willing to put their lives at stake for the life of one dumb boy." There was hypocrisy to the statement as thick as butter and Nemo dropped his hand, met the other man's eyes and implored, "Do not try my patience."

But Marlow was stalwart, a figure reminiscent of a child's piratical yarn -- a sun-yellowed skeleton heaped in rags with a rifle clutched in his spidery fingers. His eyes were pieces of cold coal pressed into a gaunt face, completely devoid of any passion, and should Nemo have spurned him once more the man would have, undoubtedly, deferred; so was his nature, as had been that of Ishmael, that of the gentle, sage watchman. It was something he had always privately envied, that benevolent disposition which lacked any true fires but was so able to recognize those which burned in others. Marlow undoubtedly knew his role was to concede if again challenged, yet knew the ilk of Nemo enough to predict such a thing would never come. There had been a time, once, that the captain would not have flinched, but no more did that man live . . .

Nemo said nothing, simply closed the door of the locker behind him. He turned, and headed towards the deck. Like a priest's acolyte, Marlow fell into step as they mounted the stairwell towards the deck.

The falling rain, by then, had become a solid presence in the air, the night a heavy blanket over the ship. The bloated river beneath the vessel sobbed with excess while the jungle hushed, and the electric lights sent back a thousand gossamer gleams from the wet leaves, the smooth riverbank stones, the curving line of the river, as if they had journeyed into a land of glass. Marlow informed him with a murmur that the river had narrowed and the ship could proceed no further; the last half-mile would have to be traversed in a longboat.

They had barely taken a step into the small craft suspended over the rolling river far below when they were hailed from behind with a shout. Nemo turned and observed dual silhouettes framed by the phosphorescent light of the ships; he assumed them to be crewmen and waved them away. Neither did they yield, however, and Nemo was touched with impatient irritation; he motioned for the crewmen at the lines to beginning lowering the boat. Before the first rope had been let loose the two men dropped into the craft without preamble.

"Mr. Skinner requested I should look after you." Holmes explained into the glare of Nemo's electric torch almost apologetically. "Your thief nearly got himself killed because of me, once, and he suggested I should return the favor."

Mystified, Nemo turned the beam to the man beside the detective. "You, Robur?" Robur grunted, stroking the goatee upon his thick jaw with burly fingers.

"I'll not leave my Albatross, Nemo." He growled over the roar of the storm. "If that means I have to charge back into that underground hellhole and strangle that Chinaman with my own two hands, so be it."

"Robur--"

"Yes, yes, we'll get your boy first. But I'll expect you grant me the same favors, when the time comes."

Nemo hesitated. "You're able?" At their assent, Nemo made a weary wave of his hand. Rifles were summoned for both (though of the regular kind, Nemo would not trust any one else with a weapon as dangerous as the one in his own hands). A brief pause, and crewmen continued lowering the ship onto the gleaming surface of the river. As the boat continued it's jerky descent, from above came softly: "Good luck, Cap'n", issued from a chorus of voices, and together they melded into a confused whisper that rivaled, blended with the murmur of the water below. Nemo looked up and saw a drove of faces peering down at them. He saluted them with a wretched grimace. He did not deserve them.

* * *

For a moment they saw nothing. The landscape was a confused jumble of green and black that came into focus only in lightning flashes, and by the time the image had to settle in the eye the blinding light had gone. None of them spoke; silence insulated them within the tarry, dank darkness, the deafening racket of the rain-invaded jungle that covered them as thick and smothering as wet cotton.

Marlow saw it before the others, his long sojourn in the jungle wasteland having emblazoned in him a certain alertness, the careful watchfulness of one both predator and prey. Around him he could feel his companion's chests heaving, hear their raspy breathing from the strain of the swift run from the river's edge, knew the moment that he was not alone in enlightenment: he heard their strained breathing cut off one by one in sharp inhales of realization, of awe.

There was no fear, at first, only incredulity in the paused breaths. Marlow had, of course, expected one of the island's horrible denizens, the familiar nightmare reptiles the size of houses, and perhaps the remains of Sawyer in some state of devastation -- throughout the hectic voyage he had resisted voicing the knowledge that their arrival even a few minutes late to the scene would not do the young American a bit of good. He had kept such thoughts to himself, however, in the spirit of hope and charity to his companions, however small the chance was that he could be wrong. And, of course, he did not judge them to be so dim as to harbor anything more than of the waning optimism he himself refused to abandon. He did not know Sawyer, but something in the young man had reminded him of another boy he had once known, of himself when he was young, and he had a tender place in his heart for fellow romantics--

But it was not one of the beasts, and blatant refusal to accept what his eye was seeing fell over the mariner's mind like a dust cover. It was like nothing Marlow had ever seen before: a towering demon framed against the ruins of a fallen temple, an idol in a blasphemous dream. It was eight feet in height at least, and admittedly abstractly humanoid in form -- a massive upper body was supported by thick legs that seemed almost stunted by comparison with the breadth of its chest. Its stance, a crouched, anthropoid body resting on massive ham-fisted arms, its shoulder-blades protruding from its hunched, muscular back like shovel spades, reminded him faintly of another great simian on the island, and Marlow wondered in absent awe if perhaps this were not its albino young--

"HYDE!"

The bellow was drowned in the chaotic tumult of the tempest. Marlow jerked unconsciously towards the addresser; Nemo, his eyes twin pieces of flint, had come into a painfully exposing stand, emerging from behind the tree-line. The captain held his cutlass in his hands.

It, too, had reacted, though Marlow would later conclude it was in response to the foreign sound rather than any real recognition. Marlow's eyes met those of the beast and his breath stopped, his vision swam, and for one terrible moment he thought his knees would give out.  
It, even in this place of godlessness, was chief among horrors. Its face was obviously human in origin but horrifically distorted and lacking any real humanity in the countenance, its features twisted in a mask of wrath that would be envied in Dante's deepest hell. Marlow was filled with a horrible, mindless loathing, the uncontrollable impulse to flee and yet the mad desire to kill it, to butcher it, to end this unholy and unnatural abortion of man--

It did not move, its eyes trained on the cluster of them, its arms having come to rest on the ground before it and Marlow was again reminded of an ape. Its burning eyes bulged wildly, and spittle frothed in the corners of its sneered lips that exposed horrifyingly immense teeth that glistened in the flashes of light; blood covered those dagger teeth, its chin, had run in wet-watercolor trickles down the hollows of its neck. It rippled as it turned, as it moved, one step closer, two, the muscles in its chest and back bunching with incredible power, not unlike a tiger ready to strike. Its nostrils flared, and it let out an earth shattering roar.

Marlow ran.

It was not a conscious decision but an impulse deeply entrenched in some primal nerve in the unconscious, carnal mind, the same nerve that commands a hand to snatch away from a hot-plate before the fingers are even aware of any heat. He ran, numbed into a ferocious hysteria, slipping and sliding in the mud and drenched moss of the forest, his tattered clothing and abused skin ripped by tree branches and barbed bushes, and when he realized himself again he found he was not alone. He could hear the others crashing through the brush around him like frightened deer, and of them he caught only the briefest glimpses in the lightning flashes: the sole of a boot, the cuff of a sleeve, the tail of a jacket hem. And after them raged the beast called Hyde, crashing through the brush after them a rampaging elephant, felling trees and scrub, and even in the treacherous path he was quickly gaining.

They broke from the tree-line and into a clearing, all four of them nearly simultaneous with each other, separated by a few yards each. Across the grass plane, the fallen temple gleamed wetly in the opulent moonlight. They had unwittingly run in a circle, and there was nowhere to hide. There was an inarticulate cry of alarm; Holmes had time enough to turn before he was swept aside by one of the massive hands, in a gesture eerily like the one a man will use to hurriedly clear a table. The detective was hurled into the air in a boneless flight.

There was a gunshot; Hyde visibly flinched back and raised one huge hand to cover his face, bellowing an inarticulate cry of pain and fury. It was Robur who was shooting, and Marlow, halting, fumbled with his own rifle to do the same. Nemo shouted something to the sailor, but the din of the thunder and rained drowned it away. Marlow raised his gun and Hyde's eyes fell of him, attracted by the motion. The beast charged at him with a ferocious scream.

Marlow stepped back, turned to run, stumbling sluggishly over the uneven ground and sucking mud. He heard the heavy footfalls behind him growing closer, felt the ground shudder beneath his feet and quite suddenly he was on his back.

He was confused, his mouth was flooded with the taste of metal, and was aware only of being in pain. He lay for a moment, drifting dully in limbo before a brief lightning bolt brought the black intangibility of the world back into his grasp. The pain in his skull was excruciating, and felt as though his scalp were leaking; he raised on hand to tentatively touch it and his skull responded with a bolt of gorgeous agony. His kidneys felt like balls of hot lead. Water was puddling around his ears, dropping into his eyes and onto his face and he wondered vaguely if he were drowning.

It was a sudden shudder of the ground that returned him to the moment, to force him shaking hands to press against the wet grass. With tremendous effort Marlow pushed himself up; he gasped and gagged and spat blood. His rifle lay steeped in mud feet away, drenched and likely useless, the butt pointing up to the stars like a crooked sundial. Hundreds of yards away he could see the battle continuing, and a figure rendered small by distance was seized by one of the beast's massive hands, and there was a horrible screaming punctuated by more gunshots-- the limp figure was dropped and what looked to be a stick was snatched by Hyde and snapped between the beast's gnashing teeth. Another figure (Robur, by the size) leapt from a small overhanging rock onto the beasts' back. He clung to the monster's neck and hair valiantly while it roared and bucked but was thrown off by the violent thrashing. The other body, limp, slipped to the ground.  
Marlow had become occupied, however, with something closer, a soft moaning that he had first taken to be the gurgle of the swollen river. Drugged with pain, he groped through the darkness towards it, feeling out with blind fingers along wet grass and dusty rock until they had found a puddle that was impossibly warm. Marlow frowned, blinked stupidly, and raised his head.

"Sawyer?"

There was a terrific moan, "Oh, my _hand_ . . ."

Marlow came up into a sit, weak and trembling and his head buzzing and vision blurred with cigarette burns; he sat for a moment fighting the urge to faint or vomit, and instead crawled deeper into the unfamiliar darkness, fumbling his way over gritty, unseen obstacles. Another brief burst of lightning and he found the agent on his back amongst a pile of rock.

Sawyer was barely conscious, all the colour having drained from his face and lips, rending his pallor an ashy-gray. He was trembling, his hair plastered to his skull with blood and rain and his half-lidded eyes were circled with black bruises; he clutched one hand to a blood drenched shirt. At Marlow's coaxing he sluggishly turned it over, uttering little whimpering barks of nervous pain as the mariner raised the hand to his eyes, squinting against the night. Two of Sawyer's fingers were intact by bare sinews of skin and muscle. Marlow repressed the urge to moan himself and hurriedly tore a strip from his shirt. He awkwardly wrapped the drooping fingers, and lay the hand back on Sawyer's heaving chest.

"Come on Sawyer--" Marlow put a hand beneath the boy's shoulders, and made to drag Sawyer up. The boy was dead weight and it was like trying to lift a bag of sand; Sawyer made a testy, irritable shrugging motion, groaned, "Let me sleep . . ."

"MARLOW!" He felt only a concussive collision yards away as he scrambled to his own feet; he grabbed Sawyer by the the scruff of his shirt and hauled him up. The mariner began to run in a staggering, slow gate, dragging Sawyer with him as he felt the ground plowing up in a ferocious rain; the boy's feet moved in a shiftless, half-conscious effort. Marlow stumbled, his ankle caught in some cleft in the ground and he dropped with a short cry, throwing Sawyer to the ground beside him with a final, twisting gesture. He covered his head with his hands. Providence, then, had acted on their behalf -- there was a sharp whistling inches over his prostrate body and the hairs at the nape of his neck rustled with the gentle breeze created. It had no sooner passed that he was scrabbling across the flooded ground where Sawyer, too, lay face down but unmoving, and perhaps against his better judgement, Marlow turned over as he staggered up to see the storming sky.

The beast towered above them in a tornado of reckless rage -- he had upended a tree and was swinging it wildly towards the vague silhouettes revealed by rivers of electricity, towards the dubious origin of the crack shots of rifles. Hyde roared in frustrated pain, made a horribly human gesture of batting away flies at the coming bullets and slammed the tree into the ground, where it splintered and cracked in half. The earth shook. Marlow had a terrible instant of dread at who, perhaps, had been in the shadow of that falling cudgel before he was once again in the monster's sights; Hyde picked up half of the remaining tree trunk and Marlow was somewhat dazed to find that he had managed to find Sawyer again and was attempting to drag the boy up once more but Sawyer had slipped away and lolled against him like a rag doll, and Marlow watched with out of the corner of his eye in distraction as Hyde raised the tree trunk as if he were attempting to kill an insect with a bit of rolled newspaper, and then Marlow's voice failed him. He had not realized that he had been screaming at the unconscious Sawyer to _"GET UP, DAMN YOU!"_ and instead he watched in dumb silence as that damnable tree trunk eclipsed the moon, a moon which had finally emerged from behind the clouds a huge and sterling coin, and the roots of the tree seemed as though they were attempting to embrace it--

There was a gunshot, though this was far more muted, the whisper of air akin to that of an arrow launching from a crossbow, and he would not have been able to hear it in the din of the storm had not the world seemed to take one of it's strange sojourns into the unreal, and time seemed to pass more slowly, more quietly.

There was a spout from the beast's shoulder, a small spurt of blood, and the beast was so close he could smell it, could see the cherry colored beads suspended in the air in the lightning-whitened, interrupted world. The beast was still moving, his eyes bulging, rolling and wild, his mouth open in a howl of triumph, unmindful of the freely bleeding wound and there were not a few, though this was the only one that bled in a steady fountain rather than a trickle. And then it happened, in the span of what was in actuality little more than an eye-blink, but for Marlow and for, undoubtedly, the beast himself, it seemed to stretch for an eternity.

A spider of electricity burst from the wound, and Hyde was engulfed in a crackling web of blue that spread from the shoulder and swept over his body like a sea tide. He both halted and contorted, and his expression fury, then, twisted into a much more fierce distortion: a silent howl of pain, and Marlow was overcome with sudden, profound sympathy, pity for the horrible creature. Electricity danced between the parted lines of its teeth, scuttled across its wide, open eyes, flickered from the ends of its massive fingertips, bringing animation to the creature that had become as still as a statue but for one index finger that jerked in a steady tic, tic, tic. The atmosphere was pungent with the acrid odor of burning hair. The tree trunk in the beast's hands exploded, and the rain was joined by smoking wood chips. And, just as quickly, it was over, the dancing sprites of blinding white-blue flickering into the nothingness from whence they had emerged. The beast Hyde stood motionless, its eyes having fallen to half-lid. Smoke was rising from it, as if from a dead fire.

Hyde dropped with a slowness and finality that seemed to rock the land beneath Marlow's feet.

* * *

"Why didn't you do that in the _BLOODY FIRST PLACE?!_" Robur screamed. The aeronaut was limping noticeably as he stormed toward the Captain, his voice hoarse with rage. "You silly bastard! You damned cretin! He nearly killed me!"

Nemo lowered the air rifle as he finished his approach, slowing as he came upon the smoldering body of Hyde, the beast face down in the damp grass. Feet before the prostrate figure, a blank-eyed Marlow had fallen still and silent, though one hand seemed to move independently of the stunned mariner and continued to shake Sawyer in a lackluster attempt at rousing him.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?" Nemo muttered as he halted a few feet from Hyde, the muzzle of the air rifle still trained on the beast's unmoving back.

"No need for alarm." A thin voice replied. Holmes was walking towards them slowly, the detective pasty-faced and sweating profusely, blood soaking through the tweed of his jacket and trousers and staining them dark.

Nemo felt Robur grab for the rifle -- perhaps to fire again and finish what one bullet may not have accomplished -- and Nemo nudged him with the butt of the gun in the ribs, just enough to make the aeronaut hiss in pain and withdraw, spitting curses. The Captain ignored him, turned to the body before him. His immediate impression was that he should perhaps prod Hyde's still back with the muzzle and he was immediately repulsed with the thought, of the suggestion that Hyde were some buck he was curious to see if he'd managed to kill. Nemo let the rifle slide between his fingers and drop to the ground; he knelt, and placed a hand on the cold, drenched, filthy flesh of the prostrate beast. He shook his head and his mouth twisted in bitterness. "Damn you, Hyde." He ground out, his hands clenching into fists. The anger did not last -- he was tired and his head was bleeding and, after the brief spark passed, Nemo could manage nothing but pity and regret. Even now Hyde had found no peace, his countenance still twisted in an almost desperate proclamation of furious unrest that seemed to the captain equal parts wrath and misery, both savage and humanly wretched.

"Poor devil." Nemo muttered. He reached with his free hand to remove his torn jacket, to cover the hapless creature's death grimace.  
Mid-task, Nemo thought he saw body twitch and he jerked back violently; he saw the others do the same, stumbling back as if Nemo had agitated a delicate bomb, and then Hyde did move -- the skin of his back rippled, his limbs contorted in broken marionette gestures, and he issued a low, rumbling groan. By then all of them had fled a few feet, had regained discarded rifles and had them trained on the beast, and Nemo heard himself groan, "Please, no more--!"

Hyde remained prostrate but the motions became more frenetic -- the bones and muscles beneath his skin bulged and contracted and he writhed, Hyde spasming and crying out and they watched in silent horror at they culminated into a spastic fury like water coming to a boil . . . and then Hyde seemed to wilt, to retract, to shrivel--

"What in the devil--?"

--until it was simply Henry Jekyll that lay before them. Skeletal, pallid, filthy Henry Jekyll, who, in comparison to his other, seemed little more than a blighted, alabaster ghost, a palpable memory of a man in the lunar light. The rain, finally, had calmed as the storm broke from its culmination and had devolved into a steady drizzle, and the moon had emerged from behind the thinning storm clouds. Jekyll laid in the tattered remains of his trousers like a sleeping child in the throws of a nightmare: shuddering, his eyes nearly closed, issuing short little gasps of distress. Nemo knelt beside him with a small prayer of thankfulness and turned the doctor over, and, removing his jacket, the captain gently draped it over the doctor's trembling frame.

At the touch Jekyll roused, his eyes coming open a little and rolling in their sockets, and the mouth stained with the blood of other men whispered, "Nemo, Nemo," as the doctor's filmy eyes fixed on the captain's face. The soft scene did not last, however; Jekyll's face stilled, his eyes widened and cleared, and the hand that had come up to touch the captain's arm clenched the fabric of his tunic. Jekyll's mouth had fallen open, and the cracked lips trembled.

Jekyll screamed. It was a shrill, piercing note of unbearable suffering that Nemo would have thought human lungs incapable of; a sound far more terrible than anything his other had managed to produce. Jekyll screamed and screamed before Nemo, mercifully, applied pressure at the doctor's collar with two fingers, and Jekyll was returned to oblivion, his crying softening into a quiet, miserable keening, then dwindling away.

* * *

A/N: Well, at bit of delay again . . . I'm afraid it can't be helped. Anyways, thanks to all my reviewers from last chapter! I hope this chapter wasn't terribly anticlimactic. Anyways, I always appreciate any comments or criticisms!


	18. Chapter 18: For Thine is the Kingdom

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 18: For Thine is the Kingdom

* * *

She could see them through the crisscrossing branches, the gaps in the overlaid leaves, through the darkness as easily as if it had been day. They were vibrant silhouettes against a palette of blacks and moon-washed grays, red shadows drifting through obscurity as they stood and converged like frightened animals, limping through inky backdrops, leaving sparkling trails in their wake: little driblets on the grass blades and splashes in the soil that glowed as brightly as coals, for a moment, and then cooled. Their smell was so strong, so sharp, that she could no longer smell the clean water or the ozone, the atmosphere pungent with the odors of soap and starch and those more pure: of pain and sweat and fear and blood's metallic fetor, rolling across the field in a fog thick enough to drink.

And they came to her, eventually, fumbling, stupid and blind in the darkness, thrashing through the clusters of bamboo and high brush with their arms and hands, tripping and struggling and groping in a line that was close enough that she could have reached out and touched them . . .

Tentatively, she stretched out a hand and brushed a blood-crusted cheek, an ear. The owning man flinched back though he gave no sign of alarm, his dark eyes focused forward in a purblind. She smelled the unfamiliar blood and licked it from her fingertips. In a few heartbeats, their loud, crashing parade had passed behind her, and she forgot them.

* * *

The doctor's shoulder was bleeding in a steady, heavy flow, blood spreading in an ink-blot stain through the jacket that Nemo had wrapped him in with solicitous haste. The captain paused in his actions and tore one of the sleeves from the garment, folded the fabric into a crude compress and tied it in place against the welling wound. Tucking the jacket more securely around the shuddering man, Nemo gently lifted Jekyll from the rain-saturated ground, and it was like picking up a bag of bones -- Jekyll seemed to weigh no more than a child. In response, the doctor let out a single, miserable moan, and fell silent.

Standing and surveying their surroundings, Nemo was staggered by the realization of a night still in its infancy: with the clouds dispersing with halfhearted chuckles of thunder, he could see a gray haze on the horizon where the day's light had yet to fully rest. It seemed as though it had been days since they had first encountered Marlow on the beach with the dusk framing him against the sea, and years since they had crashed-landed on this godforsaken island. Yet surely no more than a quarter of an hour had passed since the sun had first brushed the surface of the sea.

The captain looked around himself in wonder. Incredibly, the field had once again become striking in tranquility; the wilderness had swallowed their blood and fear, had subsumed and laid their brief, violent spell to rest as if it had never been, and still remained picturesque in repose: the river was still swollen and it gurgled and sloshed against the banks but the sound seemed, now, to possess no malice; the cool wind brushed against his sweat slick brow like the gentle hand of a lover, urging him not to dwell on such things. It was as if Nemo had come awake from some terrible dream into a still sleeping world.

Nemo turned towards the others, and the breath he had not realized he was holding escaped him in a high whistle. The other men had all agglomerated near the temple ruins, all hunched in pain or limping or nursing some obvious wound, but all were alive. Sawyer's limp body had been laid upon a crude litter constructed from a few of the island's giant palm boughs, and Nemo, not yet knowing if the agent was still among the living, and he was immeasurably relieved to hear the young man's insistent groans.

"How is he?" There was no answer, the faces that met his haggard, pained and weary. Nemo nodded with a brief, thin grimace as he readjusted Jekyll in his arms, blinking back the thin trickle of blood that was souring his own vision. He had avoided the worst of Hyde's mad blows, but the head wound inflicted upon him by the Doctor's men had reopened in the frenzy and was bleeding in a steady trickle. "To the Nautilus, then."

Their longboat was tied to a boulder at a bend in the river some two hundred metres from the clearing, and even with the distance he could hear the wood knocking with a steady, hollow drone against the rocky bank. Robur, apparently least injured out of his companions or the most tenacious, seized the handles of the crude litter and began hauling Sawyer back towards the boat. Holmes and Marlow followed the aeronaut's rustling path in the grass, Marlow limping, Holmes with a hand at the other man's elbow to assist his wavering pace. It was no more than an instant before the other men had disappeared completely behind the line of trees, nothing to signify their presence to the captain but the continued, distant muttering of speech, the snapping twigs and rustling leaves they disturbed in their parting. Soon, even that began to assimilate with the still-present sound of rain as water dripped from the tree leaves in a gentle, secondary shower.

The sense of loneliness was suddenly immense; Nemo might as well have been the only man left in the world. The feeling was instantaneous and all-encompassing, bringing with it a heavy trepidation, a eerie peace. Bright stars twinkled out from the dome of the velvety sky, the moon emerging with startling silver light from behind the dispersing clouds. The captain found himself both enormously fatigued and curiously energized, the memory of the struggle with Hyde still vibrating through his bones, buzzing in his ears and making the surrounding landscape seem clearer, his vision narrowed and more pointed, the smells more crisp, the sounds sharper around the throb of adrenaline in his ears. Only the weight of the doctor in his arms, the heat of the blood slowly seeping into the arm of his shirtsleeve weighted him against the strangeness of the scene. And with it, the future came back into perspective from what had been a brief period of purely reactive existence; recovering Jekyll had been a much needed victory in what had seemed to be an insurmountable plight, and in its wake Nemo could not help but feel a breath of optimism touch his heart, and warm it.

Nemo turned and began to follow after the other men, of whom he could no longer discern a sign. He was stopped by a presence underfoot. The captain glanced down and discovered his air rifle steeped in the soggy grass. After a moment of hesitation, Nemo knelt and half lay Jekyll on the ground, enough so he could free one hand, and with it he grasped the rifle's strap and slung the weapon over his shoulder. He picked Jekyll up once more, stood, and turned to start back towards the longboat.

He was met by Mina Harker.

An inarticulate exclamation died in Nemo's throat. A myriad of emotions encompassed that first moment: surprise, relief, confusion, all swept aside by a tide of rising dread. An internal voice chided him for not having expected this, having found Hyde in such a condition, and hadn't Skinner warned him--?

What struck him, first and foremost, was the beauty of the woman, even there in such a wretched wasteland, in circumstances so perverse. He had always known Mina was beautiful, and it was only in part the delicate, pale features that made her the pinnacle of allure, the constant, unnatural vitality that flushed her cheeks and made her eyes shine. It was the limbo between savagery and civility she exuded like perfume, the unspoken but undeniable impression of hairbreadth's disaster that endowed her with an unearthly beauty: it was the beauty of a tornadic sky.

Nemo had never desired her. He had loved once, truly and deeply and with the enflamed passion wrought only by youth, and the death of his wife had numbed any desire for the fairer flesh. He had admired Mina, nonetheless, from afar, in much the same way that he admired fine art or a particularly lovely flower -- appreciative of its existence without having any real investment in the matter. Mina, though, was an incredible paradox in that moment, illuminated under the fountain of silvery light. He had never seen her so lovely, so divine and yet so demonic, an avatar of this heathen jungle, voluptuous and sublime. And yet, one had only to look past her -- as one would to see the stars more brightly in darkness -- to see the state of her dress, her hair, the putrid, stale blood smeared across her face and neck. And yet, when his gaze fell upon her, he could not help . . .

_"Nemo?"_ The call was muted with the distance, indistinct, as though it had crossed a great gulf -- if it had been a voice at all. Nemo had known the wind to speak. Then, as if just to contradict him, were loud rustlings in the forest, the cracking of twigs and breaking branches -- undoubtedly someone returning to see why he had not followed. The captain wanted to shout to them not to come any closer and he could not find his voice; he producing only a dry click in his throat.

Mina regarded him with black, beetle-like eyes, the pupils having devoured the iris and the whites stained vermilion. She blinked twice, two delicate, bird-like motions; her mouth had come open and she was breathing softly through her parted, ruddy lips, as if she were tasting the air -- Nemo did not doubt that this was exactly what she was doing, sipping in the sultry, rain-washed atmosphere stained with their fear and pain, swirling it against her senses as if it were fine wine. He wondered, absently, why she had yet to tear out his throat.

She reached forward with startling swiftness. Nemo jolted back a step. Mina did not hesitate in wake of the spastic motion, nor did she strike; instead, she brushed the wisps of hair that had tumbled from beneath his turban away from his brow. He shuddered beneath the queerly gentle touch, yet was unable to pull away -- the feel of her cold, inhuman fingers against his skin was unbearable yet sublime; an ugly, wracking tremor crawled down his backbone. Slowly, she retracted her hand. Her fingers were wet with blood from his temple. She touched the fingertips to her lips and there they lingered, her tongue brushing against them faintly, as if she was savoring a delicacy.

She brought the fingers down once again, slowly, and turned her dark eyes from Nemo. They fell on Jekyll's pale, sweat-damp face. She reached forward to him, to the bloody fabric covering his wounded shoulder and then Nemo did recoil, sharply, drawing the unconscious man away from her.

"No," he said softly.

Her gaze flickered back up to him and she blinked twice more. Her hand curled into a loose fist, and the briefest touch of pique crossed her flawless, empty features.

Nemo, in response, slowly shifted, the way one would in the face of a crouched tiger, and the gun's strap slid from his shoulder to the crook of his bent elbow. He slowly readjusting Jekyll's body to free his hand enough for him to reach the gun, the captain praying there would be enough time for him to grab it, to twist and fire it in the face of her prodigious speed, praying that it would be enough to at least distract her long enough for him to get Jekyll back to the river--

A deafening roar filled the air. Hurricane-like wind poured across the field, fierce and unrelenting. Trees buckled backwards on trunks that seemed suddenly to be as pliable as rubber, their branches swept back like heads of hair, and the wild racket of their leaves rustling was drowned in the din. The field's long grass flattened, ripped like water. Nemo jerked his head around, then up to the sky, eyes squinted in the against the gale. Framed against the bright stars was an indistinct blot glowing with a dim phosphorescence like a giant firefly, a dark shadow passing over the brightly shining moon.

_"NEMO!"_

Nemo swung towards the voice. It was undoubtedly Robur; his wide, bullish frame unmistakable against the tree line even in the dim moonlight. Nemo could see the man gesticulating wildly to the sky, to the strange shadow drifting across the stars, and Nemo could only understand the man once his speech had simplified into a single, repeated shout above the roar: _"ALBATROSS!"_

Nemo started towards him, then, in shock, turned back. He had spun instinctually in the face of this new peril, putting Mina at his back --

The field around him was empty. Mina had gone. Nemo glanced around briefly, and with a prayer to benevolent gods, he ran towards the river, not daring to look over his shoulder in his retreat.

* * *

"Raise the anchor." Nemo grasped spokes of the Nautilus' steering wheel and spun it twice. "Flank. All engines to full capacity." The call resounded through the hallways to the bowels of the ship, and the crew received it with prompt alacrity. The engines bellowed from their idle. The Nautilus emerged from relative stillness and started forward slowly, the ship laboriously turning, the screws churning the salt water into a huge rooster tail that kicked the ship forward with a jolt of sudden speed.

"You'll never reach her." Injury had diminished none of Robur's choler. The other men had retired to the lower deck to nurse their wounds, all but Robur, who stood behind the mariner's desk, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was deadpan and his eyes cold, yet the words held an unmistakable note of pride. "She is faster than your ship. She will have made it to the stratosphere by now."

Nemo did not reply, his hands resting on the wheel in gentle guidance as the ships' screws propelled the craft with ever increasing speed, until the Nautilus' usual, minutely jarring gate smoothed and they might have been skating over a sheet of ice. Nemo could not see the aircraft in the darkness even with his ship's projected luminescence, but already the Nautilus' instruments had discovered the Albatross' position, and he directed where indicated.

It did not take long for Nemo to spot the Albatross through the glass panel. She was not, as he had expected, a distant glowing star. Nemo could see her quite clearly with the combined sodium floodlights of the Nautilus and the dim light exuding from the Albatross herself, and he truly appreciated Robur's genius for the first time. She was a dove-white ghost suspended in the night sky, her body half the size of the Nautilus and obviously designed in the likeness of her namesake; twin, thin, membranous wings extended from her sides; a sharp rudder jutted from the back of the craft in a fin, beneath which a small screw projected. He noticed, however, that the moon above the slick body was interrupted by intermittent bars of black, as if Nemo were viewing it through swiftly moving fan-blades.

"Screws." Robur murmured, as if reading the other man's mind. He had, in his apparent excitement, come up on the captain's side. The aeronaut rested one thick hand on the captain's shoulder and clenched the muscle in a stranglehold. "Faster man," Robur gasped, "faster, damn you!"

The Albatross was perhaps a hundred and fifty metres above the surface of the water, and it was quickly apparent why her ascension had not been what Robur had predicted: her was pace unsure, the craft dragging then jerking forward intermittently; she oscillated turbulently, her nose and tail dipping and sliding nervously in the air. They came up on her wobbling, disjointed flight quickly. The Nautilus' nose aligned with the Albatross' rudder and her rear screw and was only a few knots trailing when the aircraft begin to rise in the air -- shuddering, lurching, uneven in flight; yet, as they watched, her motions began to smoothen.

"Nemo!" Robur hissed.

"Raise the harpoon." The words were repeated by a crewman over the wire to the lower decks.

Robur was smoldering, and his hand tightened on Nemo's shoulder. "It won't work, you know." He said with an imperious flare. "She's indestructible."

Nemo raised an eyebrow, and spared a glance in the other man's direction. "What is the Albatross constructed of?"

Robur smiled strangely. "Paper, my dear Nemo." He chuckled. "Paper."

Through the open panel before him, Nemo could see that the hatchway at the apex of bow had opened, and a lift on the deck had been raised. Upon the platform was the massive, mounted cannon of the ship's harpoon, the metal gun nearly nine feet long from mouth to end and with a three foot circumference around the barrel. An immense, barbed spearhead extended out of the mouth of the gun. One of the crewmen stood behind the contraption, and he swung the machine up to point into the sky.

"Fire when ready."

A piston thrust in the back of the gun with a burst of smoke and an eruption of sound. The harpoon tore through the air, cutting just left of the Albatross' rudder; the metal spear slapped the fin of the craft's short wing as it fell, and failed to catch.

"Nemo!"

"Patience, Robur." A motorized pulley beside the harpoon spun to retract the ejected weapon; the cable danced through the air as the spear was snatched back before it even had to time to collide with the ocean, and the spearhead locked back into the gun with a sharp metallic clang. Even in those few seconds the Albatross had raised another fifty metres in the air.

Robur let out a slow, shuddering exhale near the captain's ear. Nemo uncurled his own sweat-soaked fingers from where they had been clenching the steering wheel's spokes.

"Fire when ready." The captain called.

Another piston thrust, a second explosion and a burst of sound, and harpoon touched against the spine of the Albatross, skating over her surface before it was airborne once more -- and, falling, caught against the pedestal of her rudder. Robur sucked in a breath sharply.

The cable retracted once against with the high whirring zip. The pulley drawing the cable ground to a premature halt with a high metal whine and began to smoke; the Albatross buckled backwards noticeably. For a breath there was a feeling of weightlessness as the Nautilus was dragged upwards against the force of the other craft. The engines stalled, and for a moment both machines were deadlocked, the tension of colliding titans palpable in the air--

"Reverse direction." The Nautilus' engines clanked, spun, and the screws screamed in the water. The Nautilus began to slowly pull backwards against the incredible mechanism bound to her bow.

"She'll never hold." Robur breathed.

Nemo smiled. "Reel the Albatross in." With grinding slowness, the pulley began to turn, and the cable began to retract. Slowly, the Nautilus began to pull the Albatross down to the sea. The Albatross struggled furiously, the aircraft's massive screws thwacking vainly in the air, the craft bucking against the snare, but the Nautilus dragged her down like a snake latched to a bird.

Seemingly inch by inch, the Albatross was drawn from the sky, though it could not have been more than a minute before the Nautilus and the Albatross were nearly kissing in their strained embrace. The Albatross' wings were see-sawing wildly, cutting down into the sea and sending violent splashes against the Nautilus' sides. Nemo's view was more than once blurred as the sprays of water washed over the glass panel.

It was when the Albatross first touched the Nautilus' bow, barely a peck that let out a strangely musical chime, that Robur broke.

"You'll not have it, you hear me?!" He shrieked in a sudden paroxysm of fury, and fled from the helm, scrambling up the hatchway to the deck, ignoring Nemo's shout after him. Almost simultaneous with the man's sudden charge a discreet door flapped open in the belly of the Albatross, brimming with dacoit. They bubbled from the door like ants from a flooded hill -- some tumbled from it and missed the deck, falling into the obscurity of the night; others dropped onto the deck just to be quickly dispatched by the armed crewmen that had quickly mobilizing to counter them. Among the crowd Nemo could easily see Robur, and though he muttered under his breath strings of warning imprecations, the aeronaut seemed completely devoid of sense.

The Albatross' rudder brushed against the Nautilus' deck; her rear screw cut into the metal of the deck and the thin blades bent and twisted like tin. Robur, with simian grace, grasped the strained cable of the harpoon and began to drag himself up to the aircraft.

"Take the wheel." Nemo commanded hurriedly to the crewmen at his left, and he fled from his station and up the hatchway.

"ROBUR!" He cried, pushing through the mariners that had gathered and were firing at the dacoit indiscriminately, both those few remaining on the deck and those crowded in and spilling from the doorway of the Albatross' bay. Robur had managed to get up the rope and grasped the lip of the Albatross' belly, screaming, _"YOU'LL NOT HAVE HER, YOU DEVILS!" _The dacoit hacked at Robur as he attempted to climb into his Albatross. Robur grabbed one man's foot and threw him out of the craft; the man fell screaming into the ocean. The bay's door flapped wildly in the severe wind and the dacoit, in apparent terror of the aeronaut coming at them like a wild bear, tried to pull it shut; Robur wrenched it open and swung himself up into the carriage of the craft. No sooner than he had disappeared into the blackness of the ship's interior than the harpoon's cable finally gave.

The Nautilus gave a massive backwards wrench, toppling those standing from their feet. The broken cable whipped back with a snap, lashed a deep dent into the Nautilus' deck with the force released, then lay like a dead snake. The Albatross jerked forward, staggered, and was freely airborne once again.

The aircraft rose in the same uneven, staggering gate, then fell, belly skimming over the tops of the ocean waves, her body twisting wildly, directionless as the rear, mangled screw turned half-heartedly. As they watched, she rose again, staggered, and climbed, the still-lodged harpoon and broken cable trailing like a kite string. But her ascent was steady, and the Albatross climbed until she was nothing but a toy idol in the sky.

Then, all at once, barely discernible to the unaided eye, she baulked. Her multiple screws shuddered to a stop. She hung for a moment in the night sky, framed by the stars and the moon.

And then she fell. She spun lazily as she plummeted, like a falling samara seed. They saw her crash nearly a mile off, a burst of white water in the distance.

Nemo stood frozen with the other crewmen as the resulting wave mushroomed and sent out a tide, though it was barely a ripple by the time it reached the Nautilus. The slight rocking roused him from his shock. The captain passed a hand over his eyes.

"Well done." He said calmly as he headed back towards the helm. "Prepare to search for survivors."

* * *

They returned to the island at dawn. They searched the catacombs of the Doctor's lair carefully, flooding the inky corridors with white light, binding the waists of the exploring men with guide ropes to prevent them from being lost in the alien depths. What they could explore -- for the catacombs did indeed span the length of the island, and went so deep they seemed to penetrate down to the center of the earth -- of the Doctor or his dacoit they could find no sign.

They returned to the clearing. In the daylight, it would have been unrecognizable if not for the familiar ruins and the trauma-leveled grass, and the great splashed of stale blood that ornamented both. They could find nothing of Mina. Nemo was beginning to wonder if he had perhaps dreamed the whole episode.

"There is another place." Marlow suggested quietly as they returned to the Nautilus, the silver ship moored in the center of the island's largest river. The captain hardly noticed their surroundings; for him, the island had become monotonous, and time ran like tallow.

"It is not your fault." Marlow added, tentatively, as if unsure how to offer comfort. Nemo turned and regarded him blankly, and the man waved a hand. "I did not know Robur, but I doubt that he was ruled by little more than passion."

They had found nothing at the Albatross' impact sight but a little debris -- shards of her shell, floating boxes of supplies, what looked to be a few empty articles of clothing that the water brought life to. There were no bodies except that of a single dacoit floating face down and spread-eagle. There was no Albatross. The explanation within the crew seemed to be that the aircraft had quickly sunk, taking with it all men encased in her belly and unceremoniously drowning them. It would certainly explain the lack of corpses. Nemo was not so sure. But if true . . .

They trekked to the highest cliff face on one of the island's many mountains, and in the morning and with the altitude, the air held within it a damp crispness that was not quite a chill. Dew drops glistened on the leaves, the blades of grass like diamonds. They were headed to the top of the cliff face, he and a group of crewmen armed with the air rifles, where the top of the mountain yawned into a rugged cave.

Nemo did not care for Robur, though his death -- if he were in fact dead -- was certainly a regrettable occurrence. If true, the world had lost an unquestionably genius mind. Nemo was occupied with another, however, with a victim that would pass unnoticed from the face of the world, a girl he should have tried harder to save, that he _could_ have saved . . .

Regret weighed heavily on his heart.

Within the dark grotto resembled an elephant graveyard -- the ground was littered with monstrous, sun-bleached and mold-browned bones of a mammoth creature that resembled an elephant in size only. They served of little interest to Nemo, though the crewmen became nervous in their midst. Marlow was the one who ran ahead, a moment calling back from the dark depths, "It is all right! We are alone!" Slowly, cautiously, they followed the eager man, climbing over and through cobwebbed bones that crumbled to dust under the briefest touch. Settling rain dripped in steady tempo into puddles in the smooth rock floor, and the sound echoed wetly against the cave walls. Above, in the clefts of the rock between milky stalactites, monstrous bats shifted in sleep.

They found the bodies first, that of a dacoit and another who was undoubtedly a native, along with the bodies of a half a dozen of the monstrous bats. Their throats were torn out, the bodies pale and bloodless. She lay just beyond them, sequestered into a small grotto in the rock.

Mina's face was bloated, her body gorged, her colouring as gray as corpse's; pearl white, hooked canines protruded over her swollen, ruby lips. Her pale hands were folded neatly over her still breast. Nemo could hear what someone retching behind him, and did not blame the man. He knelt, wrapping his arms beneath her shoulders and legs, and gathered the woman gently. She was cold.

Nemo tucked her head under his chin like a father would his sleeping child. "Let us be done with this place."

* * *

Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter! Hope this wasn't too anticlimactic. I always love hearing comments and criticism.

* * *


	19. Chapter 19: And Pray That I May Forget

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

A/N: Just a little warning: flashbacks ahead!

* * *

Chapter 19: And Pray That I May Forget

* * *

_(It seemed to be glaring down at her, the large, white, imposing building that spoke of fledgling wealth, as if disapproving of the young woman lingering at its iron wrought gate, absently fingering the gold-painted barbs. And she was, foolish as it may be, intimidated by the flat, cold eyes of the house's window panes. There was still time for her to walk away, to feign a mistaken address for any curious eyes . . . but no, she had made a promise, a promise deferred long enough. And, though she refused to be candid with herself, she had no where else to go -- she had left Jonathon's resources in a trust for Quincy, except for a modest amount for herself, which was already nearly gone. But she had not come to beg. Her pride would not allow it. She would simply go to the doctor, explain the situation, have a (bitter) laugh at Dr. Van Helsing's expense, and then . . . well, providence would lead her, she supposed. Resolute and with a plastered smile, she pushed open the gate door, stepped up the few steps onto the portico, and came to the dark wood door._

_After a brief hesitation, she rapped the brass knocker._

_The door swung open immediately, though she was not entirely expected. The man she was faced with eerily resembled the house: large in stature, his pale face smooth-shaven, his iron gray hair projected over a brow set into severity. His suit distinguished him as a steward._

_"Yes, um, hello." He said nothing. Mina's smile retracted, and she cleared her throat nervously. "Well then, I'm Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker, and I have a meeting with the doctor." When his gaze remained unflinching and his mouth still, Mina began to wonder if he were perhaps dumb; with inspiration she fumbled into her small purse and retrieved Van Helsing's note with clumsy hands. It was by then age-yellowed and wrinkled into velvet tissue-paper ball. She smoothed it out, embarrassed, and offered to him. "I've sent a telegram. The doctor should be expecting me."_

_She was bade inside. The house's interior largely mirrored its exterior: only the lack of dust marked it as being occupied. The floors were naked, the walls were bare of art but for the smallest of feminine touches -- a vase of flowers here, a Persian rug there, making Mina surmise that either the house was just moved into or had been very recently robbed._

_"Madame Harker!" Her elbow was quite suddenly taken. The doorman had already started down the dark hallway (either as a guide or simply leaving her to fend for herself, Mina was not quite sure) and she was gently pulled by the arm entwined in hers to follow him. The influence was source of a young, pale woman about Mina's own age. She very much reminded Mina of a dove, with her her fair skin, her small hands, her dark, wispy hair framed around delicate features. The woman pressed Mina's arm gently, her brow strained over her dark eyes, her small, pink lips pulled into a tense line. "Please excuse me, Madame Harker, but I must warn you about my husband." Her crisp accent was evidence of a french-borne tongue. "He has been terribly irritable since he heard word that they're going to try and force him into retirement from the Comparative Anthropology Department, so please tread lightly. My dear George would never strike a woman, but his language--"_

_"What about my words do you not comprehend, you pea-brained ignoramous?!"_

_The young woman winced. "Perhaps, Madame Harker, you would like to retire to the parlor for a cup of tea before--"_

_The door at the end of the hall flew open and impacted the wall with a sound like a rifle's report. From it a tangle of wool and leather and dark hair spilled in a violently ejected jumble. The man recovered from his roll on the ground and was on his feet with impressive grace; he smoothed his long hair back from his eyes, fixed an unclasped cufflink and spat, "Heathen," over his shoulder all in the same breath. He did not look back as he pushed past them with an atmosphere of both perfect civility and poisonous rage, though Mina caught his eye, for a moment. His stride, however, remained unbroken. A moment they heard the front door open, and slam._

_Filling the door frame, shouting oaths at the man's retreating back, was who Mina presumed was the fabled Doctor Challenger. He was much younger than she had expected for being so recommended by Dr. Van Helsing; his face still possessed the smoothness and openness of youth, and at that Mina's heart fell a little. She had come with no pretenses of hope, but even so, she was dismayed with the finality that the young face presented. What could this boy possibly know of the world? She was suddenly very lonely._

_At sight of the two women, Challenger's curled lip smoothed. His hunched figure straightened and filled the doorframe -- he was a short man but his broad shoulders gave him the impression of largeness that his stature did not posses. His anger reddened face both appeared to blanche and pink simultaneously; the doctor fidgeted with the rolled cuffs of his shirtsleeves, and he raked back his tousled black hair._

_"Mrs. Harker, I would presume?" He grumbled finally. Mina nodded. He beckoned her to enter with one large hand but did not wait, and vanished back into the darkened room._

_Mina glanced at the other woman, who pressed her hand and gave her a small smile. "Remember what I said," the young woman issued in lieu of an reassurances. Mina, after a moment, followed after the doctor._

_The room had obviously not been originally intended to serve as a laboratory. It was far too small, and dark curtains had been thrown over the French doors. Mina found herself bumping into metal tables and cluttered bookcases as she approached the Doctor, who had already become otherwise engaged. In contents, it was like no doctor's office she had ever encountered. A large microscope was situated on a small table cluttered with magnifying glasses, pincers, brushes and beakers of strange chemicals and salts. All along the walls, in mounted glass cases like those one would use to display butterflies, were bones, long and short, dull and yellowed and sun bleached, some the size of a chicken's wishbone while others were nearly the length and width of a human leg. Mina's eyes lingered over these with ignorant curiosity._

_"Mrs. Harker, we were expecting you," Challenger had taken his place over a over a mountain of open textbooks. He thumbed through the topmost intently, "nearly three months ago."_

_She wrenched her eyes from the displays, and turned to him. "I am sorry. I was . . . delayed." She had, of course, returned to Transylvania, to the river where they had scattered Dracula's ashes. She had been expecting -- hoping? -- that the castle would have returned to its previous, wretched atmosphere of unholy existence, if only to explain her condition, to provide some possible resolution to her plight, even if it meant Dracula had returned from the dead. She was disappointed. Situated in the deep crags of the Romanian Alps, the castle remained a dead idol._

_Mina tightened her hands together, and straightened her chin. "Dr. Challenger, I have come only as a favor to an old friend--"_

_He raised one of his black, bushy eyebrows, though his eyes still failed to part themselves from the print. Mina felt a touch of pique. _

_"--I'm afraid there's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know about my condition. I am making this visit simply as a favor to Dr. Van Helsing--"_

_"Do you know how I know Dr. Van Helsing, Mrs. Harker?"_

_She let out a blustery little sigh of annoyance. "No, Dr. Challenger, I do not."_

_"A few years ago, as a student, I attended one of Dr. Van Helsing's classes at Edinburgh University. He had a reputation for being an eccentric, for being a peddler of midwife tales and crackpot hypothesis about the existence of devils and witchcraft in our modern world." The knowledge that her dear friend would be regarded in such a way stung Mina, though she attempted not to show it. It made no difference -- Challenger's eyes were on his work and his tone was distracted, musing._

_Challenger chuckled. "Not so long ago, Mrs. Harker, 'demons' served as a wide catchall for the cause of sicknesses primitive societies did not have the knowledge to explain on their own. Diseases like epilepsy were explained as the result of demonic possessions, ailments as simple as headaches were bad spirits on the brain that could be alleviated by a hole in the cranium, etcetera, etcetera. I have no doubt that in the backwards countries of Eastern Europe and Asia that many of these primitive beliefs are still trusted with astounding piety, their inhabitants' access to higher learning and advanced medicine limited or nonexistent. And yet, to have a man as learned and respected as Dr. Van Helsing spouting such nonsense . . ." Challenger shook his head with a small smile. "But he interested me, his tales of vampires and werewolves, the stories of beasts and devils he had battled in his life. And I daresay I interested him with the row I raised -- I was the only student bold enough to say what we were all thinking: that he was a foolish old man, and that there was a scientific explanation for every one of his imaginings."_

_"They are no more imaginings than you and I are, Dr. Challenger," said Mina quietly._

_This was the first time his eyes met hers, and they were unexpected -- bright blue, they held benevolence and humor. "I see he's got his hooks into you." He put down his work and approached her, and she, instinctively, withdrew half a step. One of his short, hairy hands reached forward and took hers, and with his other hand he patted hers gently. "Now, I understand Dr. Van Helsing is something of an alarmist and the future may seem dire, but I assure you there is a perfectly rational explanation for your condition. Now, it is late. We shall have a consultation tomorrow to confirm my suspicions and begin immediate treatment. Where will you be staying?"_

_She floundered. "I did not plan to stay, Dr. Challenger."_

_"That's ridiculous. You'll stay here."_

_Mina blanched. "Well . . . I'm very flattered by the offer, Dr. Challenger, but I'm afraid that appearances--"_

_He dropped her hand and started back to his table of books, saying in an authoritative tone that made no room for discussion,"Mrs. Harker, you will board and take your meals here until I have come to a satisfactory conclusion on your condition. I will not accept no for an answer. You are a unique specimen and I will not let any of my colleagues have a go at you when I was given the first chance, though you're very likely suffering from something as mundane as aplastic anaemia caused by an underlying systemic lupus erythematosus, but it could very well be -- tell me, do are you in any way adverse to sunlight?_

_"Not particularly. I don't see--"_

_"Ah, well, perhaps not lupus or porphyria, then. Nonetheless, I would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to study any ambiguous malaise further, much less with a living specimen. Though I am loathe to do it, a contribution to a medical journal could afford me the sort of funds I need to complete other aspects of my education . . ." He looked wistfully up to the framed bones upon the walls. "But that is no concern of yours. Now, about your accommodations--"_

_Mina flushed with a creeping indignation. "Dr. Challenger, I would much rather take a room in town, if you are so insistent--"_

_"-- in return for your room and rent, you will aid me as a lab assistant."_

_Mouth open to protest, Mina fell silent. "I know nothing of chemicals and phials, Dr. Challenger." She finally said._

_"You will learn quickly enough, though your work will be nothing as technical as that. I am in need of someone to wash beakers and take notes." He raised his eyebrow, fixed her with a sharp eye. "You are capable of taking notes, aren't you, Mrs. Harker?"_

_Mina bristled. "On a typewriter and in shorthand, Dr. Challenger."_

_"Lovely. Jessie, would you please--"_

_Mina's arm was once again gently seized and she was quickly lead out of the room, back down the hallway and towards a curving staircase. The petite woman beside her chirped happily, "Madame Harker, you cannot know how pleased I am to have you! I've put your room together myself, I do hope you like it. You know," she let out a nervous little laugh, "George and I don't have any children and his . . . eccentricity makes it difficult for me to fit in with the other Doctor's wives; you can't imagine how happy I was when George said that you would be coming! Oh, and pay no mind to George, he's brusque at first but really a dear, once you get to know him."_

_By that time they had reached the upper floor of the house, and a beaming Jessie Challenger lead her to a simple room. The furnishings were sparse but elegant, the bedspread in pale pastels and the walls cream colored, with a single wood bureau pressed against the furthest wall. Fresh flowers rested in a clear vase on the windowsill._

_"Thank you, Mrs. Challenger." Mina's voice quaked a little at the end, and Jessie pressed her hand affectionately._

_"Anything you need, Mrs. Harker. George has told me a little of your circumstances . . . It must have been difficult, losing your husband."_

_"Yes."_

_"I am sorry."_

_"Thank you."_

_Jessie Challenger apparently had no patience for the uncomfortable silences that Mina had long grown accustomed to. "You must send for your things, but tomorrow I shall have to take you shopping. No arguments, please, George can find little other way to make up for alienating me than with a generous allowance, and it will be my pleasure. For tonight, you will borrow a few things of mine. They will fit well enough."_

_Mina smiled again, genuinely. It was almost like having Lucy again. "Thank you, Mrs. Challenger."_

_"Yes, well." Jessie Challenger hooked her arm once more. "I'll have to show you the rest of the house; forgive the appearance, George has just bought it (he's just come down from Scotland for that Anthropology position and they're already trying to force him out, the poor dear). Anyways, much of the furniture hasn't arrived--"_

_"Mrs. Challenger?"_

_"Yes?"_

_Mina hesitated. She did not want to come across as brazen, with Jonathan only two years in his grave (and what was she thinking, she _loved_ him, could it be that she was so fickle?), and yet the dark eyes that had encountered hers in the hallway not a half and hour before had remained on her thoughts like wood burns. She continued airily, "Who was that man Dr. Challenger so objected to?"_

_"That was Mr. Dorian Gray." Jessie sighed. "Another one of George's victims, I'm afraid. We very likely shan't be seeing any more of him.")_

I was the sun that woke her, a sun she had once bathed in with pleasure, that now stripped her of her curses and made her feel so pathetically human. She raised her hand and lay it on her brow to block the glaring ray, and with the simple motion emerged sharply from the pool of sleep. She attempted to sit. Hands on her shoulders prevented it. Mina peered into the face above hers and shook her head slightly, as if to shake away the lingering remnant of a dream.

"Dr. Challenger?"

"Go back to sleep, my dear." His hair had grayed a little at the temples, and there were lines on his brow, but his blue eyes had remained the same. Challenger smiled down at her sadly, and one of his hands patted hers with affection. "Go back to sleep."

* * *

At first, Jekyll thought he must be looking up at Arab women; the hovering figures' faces were so completely covered that he could only see twin sets of eyes. _What in the devil am I doing in Arabia? _caught in his mind and repeated, growing louder and more frenetic until he thought that surely he was going mad. His brain had been replaced with a bundle of glass, his throat ached, his muscles were sore and stiff. He was exhausted. He shifted to relieve the knot of tension in his neck, and the small movement sent a bolt of pain through his leaden body.

The pain, at least, served to clear some of the fog in his muddy consciousness. _They're wearing white. _They were moving slowly, as if trying to communicate with him in pantomime, and he tried desperately to ask them who they were but could produce only a low, dry clicking in his throat. As he watched, they came at him with bits of shining metal. He jerked in alarm. A wave of white, burning pain lanced across his chest and clenched his heart. Jekyll gasped explosively, surprised and inexplicably furious, and with a startled shout he turned his head--

His shoulder had been turned into a pincushion of metal clamps. He stared down into the gaping, crimson maw of his own body, and saw slick chords of muscle and the white stick of a bone. A swollen artery throbbed in time with his own sluggish heartbeat.

Jekyll tried to scream and it came out only as a low, whistling moan. He turned his head away, and even with the small motion brought incredible, excruciating pain. The two strange people over him fluttered like frightened birds as they spoke; it confused him further him and he thrashed weakly against their encroaching hands. His wrists were seized and he was filled with a sudden, irrational terror; Jekyll cried out and flailed, slammed himself against the soft surface beneath him and it was as if a bubble had burst; all across his chest was suddenly soaking and hot, so hot, as hot as coffee and there was so much pain, the worst pain of his life. Hands were at his elbows and chest, holding him down with iron force and then he did scream -- a sound that a small, rational portion of his brain recoiled from, for the sound was savage and hysterical.

"Get some bloody ether for the love of Christ--!"

As they came at him with an open bottle, his vision fogged; for a terrible minute he was blind. He sobbed in terror and listened to his own desperate whimpers as the world went out.

* * *

They might have broken something. Skinner had broken ribs before and that's certainly what it felt like -- a splitting pain in his chest so intense breathing was almost too painful a task, and his inhalations were infrequent and shallow. _(Even though the white plaster paint he'd been splashed with made him visible, they certainly hadn't used kid gloves in capturing him. Half a dozen of them had avalanched upon him, and he was afraid they were going to crush him to death like that crowd had killed Griffin. He had lost consciousness beneath the mountain of heavy, shouting bodies and had woken up in a strange room, handcuffed, his head aching and the inside of his mouth coated with stale blood. It was then that he met Campion Bond.)_

"It's been nearly ten years since I've practiced medicine and they leave me with the sickly aberration of science--"

Skinner was further awakened by a clamour of metal crashing into metal, the brash chime of glass in distress. There was only confusion, at first, of emerging into a bleached world in pain and impossibly out of breath. Skinner cracked open his eyes, shuddered, looked up at the blurred patch of shadow hanging over him and agitation came, an intense, petulant emotion that he did not have the strength to express, exhaustion muting the scream of 'Let me alone!' to whomever had invaded blessed sleep to drag him into this torturous white hellhole. Instead, he closed his eyes and turned his head against the light.

_(Bond offered him a cigarette. He accepted listlessly, took the fag and the light without comment, raising the small paper tube to his lips with cuffed hands. The smoke tasted flat, curdled, bitter. Capture had been something that, for years, had snapped at his coattails like the foaming jaws of a mad dog, something that had made the chase worth pursuing, the prizes all the sweeter. Now that it had finally happened he could bring himself to feel nothing more than weary resignation. He had gotten slow, careless in the game; it lacked sport any longer, and he lacked the vigor to go on._

_In truth, he was tired. In truth, he hoped this would end it once and for all, even if the end meant a hangman's noose and a convict's grave. Maybe then he would finally get some damnable rest . . ._

_They sat in silence, Bond tapping his fingernails against his desk in a rolling line as minutes crept by. Finally, Bond cleared his throat and sat up, stubbing his cigar in the ivory ashtray._

_"Does it surprise you that I know who you are? You're very clever, but we've had our eye on you for some time." He didn't reply. Bond absently swirled his tumbler of brandy. "We're entering unsteady times with the new century looming. It seems as though every civilized country on Earth is at war with one another or beating back a civil uprising of some sort. Imperialism, I'm afraid, is potentially eying its own demise, God help us. And science, by Jove -- you know we could have a man on the moon within the next few years?" Bond drank with an air of miserable exasperation. The portly man's expression became impatient as the thief failed to respond. "You are not curious as to why you are here? To why you have not been simply sent to a gaol or the gallows? We've got you for desertion now, you know.")_

"--not that I don't appreciate the opportunity; under separate circumstances I would be keen to study the anatomy of such an incredible individual--"

"I presume my 'condition' would prevent either." Skinner muttered, twisted in the cage of tangled sheets, unable to completely comprehend what it was he was caught within and too weak to do little more than muddle doggedly against them. He tried to sit up. A forceful hand stopped him; he tried to brush it away and didn't have the strength.

"Mr. Skinner?"

_("You are right." Bond conceded. The man seemed to become intensely interested in his drink, and he stared into it as though it were a crystal ball; after nearly a minute of neither of them speaking he began once again. "Do you know what was Griffin's fatal flaw was, Mr. -- Skinner? I hear that's what you're calling yourself now."_

_He ignored that, and instead stretched his lips into a playful smile that was stiff with the paint caking his features.)_

"Ignoring 'is various moral shortcomings, I take?"

"Mr. Skinner--"

_("Well, yes, of course. But his greatest flaw was he neither possessed the physical nor mental capabilities to properly utilize his own genius. One is hardly invisible if he has no knowledge of how to walk without making a sound, how to look over a man's shoulder without breathing down his neck. He had no foresight, no vision, too intent upon the trees to see the forest . . . You see what I'm getting at?"_

_He didn't answer. Bond looked up, glowered. "I do not much care, really, how you came across the formula. But you are an incredibly unique individual, both with the gift of invisibility and the propensity to properly use it. Do you not see what a boon you could be for your country?")_

Skinner let out a hysterical little giggle, and could hardly catch his breath after, "Really Bond, I've 'eard you were tactless, but I'd really not pegged you for one to beat dead 'orses for the sheer amusement of it." He waved a hand flippantly, one that he distantly realized was caught and planted back into repose with a cross mutter, and himself felt irritated by the intrusion, but his mouth had a mind of its own and prattled he on mindlessly, "though for a moment, let's entertain the notion that I should be interested -- and I use 'entertain' in the most literal sense of the term -- interested in your offer? What would I 'ave to gain from such a venture? I assume you're alluding to me actin' as some sort of spy--"

_(Bond's face contorted with fury and he jabbed a righteous finger at the thief. "That is a crude term, and is one that has no weight in this office--")_

"--righting wrongs for the crown, snooping out traitors like some bloody Sherlock," Skinner droned with the same febrile amusement, "lifting dossiers and eavesdropping on world movers; in a sense, battling the injustices of a world that is beginning to turn against the empire?" The thief settled back, and reached to place the cigarette between his lips and was profoundly befuddled when he found none pinched between his fingers. "Really, I just don't have the capacity for that sort of patriotism, much less the patience."

_("Then why did you enlist?")_

Skinner seized, choked, began coughing raucously and spat up fluid that caught and clung in his throat like paste while struggling to bring in the smallest of strangled breaths. His lungs felt as though they were attempting to turn themselves out. He was jostled, roughly handled up into a sit, and he realized, distantly, that he was resting over a shoulder, that his back was being thumped as if he were a croupy child.

_(Bond, sensing he had struck a nerve, pressed, "I can offer you something only a dead man could desire, a friendless man could want. I could guarantee amnesty for all transgressions against the crown. Forgiveness. Absolution. Redemption. A clean slate, a new identity, a new life--")_

The thief chuckled weakly. It was a bitter and ugly sound, and died on his lips as easily as it had come. "It would take much more than a fat little coxcomb with a royal seal to redeem me, Mr. Bond. Plus," he allowed a feeble, mischievous smile to cross his features, "I'm quite proud of most of what I've done."

A sharp needle of pain lanced up his arm and he jerked his head, stared at a tiny bleeding pinprick dumbly, then squinted up at the strange face across from his. He furrowed his brow, his eyelids suddenly very heavy. He muttered a curse and allowed himself to be laid back down. He drifted.

_("You insult me."_

_"No more than that suit."_

_"Then perhaps we shall have to bring Manders into it."_

_The thief's face spasmed. It was a flitting motion, slight, gone as quickly as it had come, and through the caul of paint it would not have been perceptible but for someone closely looking._

_Bond smiled._

_"Two murdered Italians. No one is weeping over their graves, rest assured, but it is still a capitol offense. At least twenty-eight years in a gaol, if not the hangman's noose."_

_"He had nothing to do with that." The thief said softly, dropping his gaze down to his hands, and the words that emerged from him were bare of their former undulation: flat English, naked of any characteristic save his motherland's own._

_A reptilian smile of triumph settled on Bond's thin lips. "Well_ I_ know that -- Manders hardly possesses your finesse or temperament -- and _you_ know that, but those fellows at the Yard are awfully hard to convince. A cabman is willing to testify that he delivered Manders to the appointed date at the appointed time, and he is quite compelling, if I do say so myself." Bond smiled a cruel smile. "So, what have you? Manders has already spent a year and a half in a gaol for you, should he be so loyal to the scaffold? I understand he's crippled now from that shot in the leg he took in the War. Set to be married, as well . . ."_

_"I will confess."_

_"Yes, yes, that's it, isn't it." Bond sighed. "But we couldn't care less about a few dead Camorra, of course." )_

"Then what is it you want of me?" Skinner gasped. But his mind had had enough of this play, and shuffled his memories like playing cards, whisking him away to a silent battlefield in an African wasteland . . .

_(He opened the cigarette case again, studied himself once more, intently. He was talented with disguises but his face was far too well known for it to hide him long, especially if . . . he closed the case, chasing off the thought, turned the case over in his hand, considering it absently. It was not particularly well made, the silver poor quality, likely from one of East London's many fences. But it was cared for, polished, and on the back he felt the slight ridge of an engraving. In the grey light of dawn he could dimly make out an etching in delicate cursive:_

Rodney Skinner

_He turned and regarded the dead man next to him. Of middle height and lean weight, his features were ravaged by a Boer's bullet . . . the thought immediately in the thief's mind was vile, indefensible, and yet . . . yet, he had done worse for less, hadn't he?_

_Without a second thought the thief tucked the cigarette case into his breast pocket, first removing his own and placing it into the dead man's uniform. He paused, and patted the dead man's cold hand sadly.)_

"Good luck, then, Mr. Skinner." He muttered softly. "I wish you a good trip, and pray you wish me no ill will."

There was more rude molesting, his arm taken and his legs cupped and he was hefted up from the bed in a motion that made him dizzy, nauseous; he allowed his head to sag against his aggressor. He floated for an eternity, it seemed, the steady rocking motion gentle, and he felt himself drifting back into sleep.

_(It was a distressingly simple task, a shabby-lodging house and he entered with the easy confidence that left his presence unquestioned. He climbed the stairs without meeting a soul. The key was in the lock on the opposite side of the door; a timely trick with forceps and the lock clicked._

_ He pushed open the door of the flat on Great Portland Street. A thrill raced up his spine as he came upon the occupant of the single, shabby room: a gaunt man was sleeping on a ragged couch. The thief startled with the man's sudden jerking, thinking he had awakened the man from his sleep, only to realize the occupant was in the throes of a violent nightmare. Before, he might have left, owing it too risky for such obviously paltry gains but the charge was real and it hummed in his core like electricity. So he slunk into the room, stepping first with his heels and rolling to the balls in a feline creep as he poked along a table of phials and jars, searching for something worth having when a cat, purring like a motorcar, rubbed against his leg._

_He looked down, and nearly uttered a shout when he was met not with the sight of a feline, but that of two milky green eyes floating in empty space. It was only then that he began to listen to the mad ravings of the sleeping man. He would not think of the clear phial he lifted for two more years, when, upon arriving home from the battlefield, he took a chance--)_

Skinner was set in a pool of water. He gasped, shocked and agitated, tried to get up and was held down, and he did not have the strength to resist. He let out a panicky little moan, thrashed.

"Calm down." His head was eased to rest against a surface that was agonizingly cold and somehow wonderful. He calmed. Skinner looked up at that same blurry face, and was overcome with sudden emotion. "Bunny," he said, and the words were barely a raspy whisper, "you've always been good to me. And I've treated you so poorly . . ."

(_It must have been spring because the water was cold, almost icy, sluicing up around his ears in a sweeping metre, raising him enough to waltz him like a piece of driftwood, and sand sucked around his body with every retreat. He drifted, face up, and the sun was shining brightly; his eyes were closed but the light seared through them, casting the world flesh-pink._

_"Arturo!"_

_He opened his eyes. She was splashing through the water towards him, her gauzy, water-hemmed skirts gathered in one hand, her bare feet kicking at the frothy waves. She fell beside him, laughing, and cupped his face in her sandy hands. He took one and kissed the palm.)_

The bath wakened him a bit and he realized his surroundings a little, though he still viewed the world through the gauzy film of fever. He remained what seemed like an eternity with the gentle metronome of water being poured down his back, his chest, of the pad of a wash rag blotting his face, his neck. He fought the awful coughing for as long as he could, until the need became a clawing animal in his chest and his eyes watered and his throat itched and he was uttering stifled little noises, until he could take it no longer and they tore from him like bullets and he thought they would kill him, them or the absolute exhaustion that followed. There was relief, though, for a bit after, his breathing was a trifle easier and the awful pressure relieved, like bit of steam letting out of a valve set to burst. These little spells of respite did not last long.

With a jarring motion as he was lifted from the water and wrapped in a terry robe the way a woman will hurriedly wrap an infant. He was dismayed to find his caregiver was not Bunny, but someone he did not recognize, though he felt as though he should. His mind fumbled, grasped dumbly for a name, and he croaked the first one with incredulity.

"Sawyer . . ?"

"Mr. Skinner, you have a great deal more to be concerned about than the fate of your comrade. He will be fine, however." He was laid down, made to swallow two little bits of chalk. A blanket, then, -- too thin for him, and he was shivering again, and that was really maybe the worst of it, the shivering -- was laid over him, tucked in around his neck. He was not supine but almost sitting up, propped on a wedge of pillows, though his head rested on a folded towel. Another cloth, wet and cold, dabbed against his neck and collar. Raucous coughs ripped through him, and yet, already, he was slipping off again and he was grateful, for at least sleep offered some small respite--

_("Why?" Bond asked again, quietly. "Why run? Why come back? Surely you knew what was waiting for you."_

_"We're at war, Mr. Bond." He answered slowly, softly, after a moment. "Hell hardly has room for petty thieves."_

_Bond chuckled with a certain admiration. "You're too modest."_

_"Then perhaps Providence judges that life is a far weightier punishment.")_

"George?"

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This chapter is a bit confusing, but all shall be made clear . . . well, about two stories from this one. XD Anyways, I always love hearing from you. The next chapter will be out hopefully soon!

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	20. Chapter 20: Although I Do Not Hope

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 20: Although I Do Not Hope

* * *

Mina had overslept.

She bolted up and threw the blankets from over her, seized with the helpless frustration that Jekyll was too polite (or too shy) to simply knock on the door when such things occurred -- which was not so infrequent as she would have hoped. She did not find her dressing gown beside the bed but hung haphazardly on the door of the bureau; without stopping to question how it had gotten there, she threw it over her white night shift and fled the room, stopping only to tuck her feet into a pair of slippers before exiting into the hall. It was perhaps ten o' clock at night, and the chance of her coming across one of the crewmen or the scientists in such a state of undress and creating a scandal (which, in the Nautilus, wasn't much of a scandal at all, outside of her own head) was very low.

Decorum over dress had evaporated between she and Jekyll within the first few days of returning from M's fortress; they were far too overworked and under-rested to worry if Jekyll's cravat was tied properly. She would very likely find him with his hair disarrayed and his shirtsleeve cuffs turned up, his collar open, the doctor looking haggard and wan but with a relieved smile on his weary face. And he wouldn't say a word about her lateness. Mina felt a bloom of shame. It was ridiculous really. There was nothing particularly stalwart about Jekyll's nature and yet whenever her shifts ended he was always there, usually early, not exactly eager but always with a smile. And this, her very witching hours--!

It was the light that struck her first as she pushed open the door to Skinner's chambers. It was painfully brilliant in comparison to the twilight of her own room and the gentle illumination of the hall, and all other thoughts were thrust aside save for disbelief, then irritation. Jekyll knew better--! She reached over and flicked off the overhead light; Skinner wasn't moaning, at least, but he was _coughing_, and what fresh hell was this--?

"Dr. Jekyll, let me remind you--" It wasn't Jekyll sitting beside the bed. Mina broke off, floundering and feeling foolish for so obvious a mistake. Whereas Jekyll seemed entirely constructed of narrow, insubstantial lines this man was thick, stout and short, and when he turned his head in surprise she saw a beard spilled halfway down his broad, barrel chest--

Mina narrowed her eyes. "George?" It couldn't possibly be. Jekyll had obviously left a crewman to watch Skinner (though terribly uncharacteristic of him), and she was not the first person to mistake one familiar bolt of hair for another--

George Challenger's face split with a smileMina had not often seen him smile and was surprised when it was not a show of coy haughtiness but an expression of genuine pleasure. She put a hand to her brow, now _sure_ that she must be dreaming.

"It hurts his eyes." She said absently, gesturing toward the light-switch. Instead of looking at Challenger her eyes drifted over the floor, the ceiling and the walls, checking that she was still on the Nautilus and that her time in the League had not been some bizarre hallucination. After this had been confirmed her gaze kept wandering, perhaps looking for the place that George Challenger had fallen out of the sky. "His eyelids are invisible." She murmured.

George Challenger rose from the chair at Skinner's bedside. "Mrs. Harker." He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. "I am terribly glad to see you. You've been asleep for quite some time." Challenger pressed her hand, drawing her attention. The smile transformed into a thin line. "How are you feeling?"

The question seemed to her the most ludicrous thing in the world. "I'm quite well, thank you."

"Good. Good." Challenger patted her hand once, twice, before awkwardly dropping it. He touched his bearded chin and his eyes shifted. "You have no -- well, I see you are a little dazed, so perhaps a walk about the ship will clear your head. Come with me, I've got to check on the rest of them."

Mina followed the professor out of the room without question, silent. Reality had collided with her like a freight train, leaving her . . . 'dazed' was a severe understatement. She was flummoxed with the simple gravity of Challenger's presence, something she could not understand simply because she could not fathom how it had come to be. Time escaped her; she had no idea _when_ she was -- it was as if two memories had collided with one another and she was caught between. Almost childishly, she pinched herself, and wakefulness was assured. And there was that, too, the confusion of waking in her room whilst never having distinctly remembered going to sleep, of the bizarre feeling that the world had passed her by, a feeling that knotted her stomach with tension. Perhaps there had been a battle of some sort, she rationalized feebly, and she had been knocked on the head. And yet surely, with her abilities, such things simply could not be--

Though she was trailing, Challenger's brisk pace had not slowed. Nearly a hall's length behind, Mina focused her attention and swiftly came up on his back. Affection had gone as quickly from Challenger's manner as a cloud passing over the sun, and he was speaking in his usual pithy tone, unmindful that she had not been listening. "--been twenty years since medical school, and that degree itself was really just a _job_ before I could secure the funds to focus on my greater hobbies -- a few letters in front of a title, you know, and I always was enamored with being 'Doctor Challenger' until, of course, they offered me tenure. I'll be damned if I've taken a temperature since college. But you still remember, don't you, my dear?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good, grand." Challenger let out a heavy breath, pursed his lips. "Moreau operated on Dr. Jekyll to remove the bullet in his shoulder. I'm not a surgeon, and I wouldn't want you sore at me for learning by doing -- I was tempted, I'll tell you that, especially in light of what he _is_. Nevertheless, I assure you I oversaw the whole procedure. God knows that troglodyte Moreau would probably try to replace the lost bits with moose antlers or some other rubbish--"

"George--"

"I'm not serious, my dear. Or God knows, maybe he would. Anyways, your Mr. Sawyer has four broken ribs, a fractured humerus and a concussion that is showing no signs of being a skull fracture, though he's being closely monitored for internal hemorrhage. Moreau had to reattach two of his fingers, but he came through it beautifully. Mr. Skinner, who is a gorgeous specimen of modern science gone awry, has a lung infection of unknown origin. As for Captain Nemo, that bugger hasn't let anyone near him and has shut himself up inside the helm -- oh, I mustn't forget that Marlow fellow, who's malnourished and dehydrated and like most of the rest of them suffering thoroughly from exhaustion and exposure and multiple lacerations ranging in severity--"

"George."

Challenger turned, regarded her calmly. "Yes, my dear?"

They had been apart for less than two years (and known each other for, Jove, something like fifteen) but she had never noticed, before, how he had aged -- at the minute lines around his eyes and those at his mouth that made him seem as though he were scowling, even while passive. Gray painted his temples and infiltrated his beard like a wisp of smoke. His flesh had loosened from his bones; he had grown a little fat at the waist and yet she could still see in him the boy he had once been, eager and young and fresh faced, as if this man were his father instead of him decayed.

Perhaps it was because Challenger was one of the few links Mina had to a younger version of herself that, in his presence, the feeling of being a small, very alone and unsure girl came to the forefront. Looking into the face that had weathered with time a way hers never would, and into eyes that viewed the world through hard, cold lenses, but for her always held kindness and sympathy, Mina's hands inexplicably shook with a fury of sudden emotion; her vision blurred at the edges.

"What has happened, George?" Her voice trembled a little.

And Challenger, God bless him, simply put a hand to her back and began leading her toward the saloon. "Let us have a bit of tea, my dear, before we continue."

* * *

" . . . and then, y'know, I woke up here."

The silence was excruciating.

"What in God's name where you thinking?"

Though the brash clangs and chimes of glass and metal rattled painfully through Sawyer's swollen brain, (which felt as thought it had been scrubbed with razor wire and then soaked in putrid ale), he said nothing. He was a smart boy, something his Aunt Polly had often reminded him (along with the usual, "If'd only do somethin' with it, blame fool") and he had learned early enough when a whuppin was snarling at his door. Not that he believed Mina Harker would ever whup him; through his bruised and nearly swollen-shut eyes he could see her lashing around the room like a live wire, banging bottles of pills and instruments and bedpans with a reckless, quiet intensity. She seemed to be searching for something but appeared not to know what, the sleeves of her blouse folded up to her elbows, her pinned hair in a state of disarray. Her face was white and set in steely passivity that was somehow worse than fury; her words snapped out of her like cold sparks; Sawyer wasn't sure he wanted to be on the bad side of that. So he sat silent and chastened, trying his best to look as pathetic as possible -- which, under the circumstances, wasn't hard to do -- and was giving her his best (when he dared to meet her gaze) what he had long thought of as 'Sid-eyes.'

"Hyde could have killed you." Mina said finally as her long hands came to settle of a syringe and bottle, and she filled the needle impatiently.

Sawyer shifted uncomfortably, winced as his brain rattled painfully against the backs of his aching eyes. He was sitting up, which had not kept him from slipping off into a drug-addled sleep every quarter hour or so -- just to be impatiently shaken awake by who he came to know as Professor Challenger, and each time he groaned loudly and agitatedly it was explained to him with paternal patience that he had a head injury, as if that would give him comfort. Sawyer turned his head away, and raised his good arm to scratch distractedly at his other arm, and was blocked by a thick casing of plaster. He frowned, pulled at his bandaged arm a little -- he was strung up like a life-sized marionette in a circus of wires, his arm was suspended level with his face, plastered in a perfect right angle, and the damaged hand was wrapped up like he'd just stuck it into a wasps' nest. Sawyer wasn't sure which was worse: the rotten tooth aching of his head or the incredible discomfort of blood settling in the base of his inactive limbs. And perhaps it was this static torture combined with Mina's terse, condescending tone that kindled within a familiar little flare of obstinacy.

"Well, he didn't."

Mina sent him a glare that could have frozen fire. Sawyer sucked his swollen, split lip, and shrunk down further into the bed.

"Are you in pain." It wasn't a question, which was good, since to Sawyer it seemed a singularly stupid one. Besides being trussed up in what looked more like a medieval torture device than a real instrument of healing, his chest was loosely bound -- more to remind him that any deep breath was likely send him doubling over in blinding pain from his broken ribs. He had spent the last day vomiting buckets of blood (Challenger had cheerfully reported that the vomiting was a side affect of the head injury and the blood, rather than being from internal bleeding, was likely the result of swallowing too much of the runoff from the crimson fountain his nose and mouth had become during the struggle with Hyde.) The violent heaving while his chest contracted had done nothing for his aforementioned ribs. His arm ached. His hand felt like he'd laid it on burning coals. He had the worst migraine of his life. He was exhausted to the bone but not allowed to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.

He was miserable. He was in _agony_.

Sawyer looked away. "No, ma'am."

With a roll of her eyes Mina came to him; she threw the blankets back. Sawyer was dressed only in a light tunic that fell long around his legs, and he caught sudden, spectacular sight of his pale flesh ravaged -- spoiled by great blotches of plum black and maroon red that were quickly fading into a jaundice yellow, like the cloud cast of a terrible storm. Mina jabbed a syringe into Sawyer's bruised thigh as if she were trying to drive something from him rather than ease his pain. Sawyer winced, looked up at her, wounded and hot with embarrassment.

"I was just trying--" He started finally. She cut him off.

"I don't want to hear it."

Mina returned to her restless meddling amongst the cupboard of bandages. She stopped after a minute, and rested her wrists over her closed eyes. Sweat shined on her brow. Sawyer had never seen her sweat before, and he suddenly felt very sorry for her.

"Mi--Mrs. Harker--"

"I've got to check on the rest of them." She fixed him with a very sharp look. "Stay here."

* * *

She was furious with them, with all of them: Sawyer for his myopic gallantry, Nemo for his lack of foresight, Skinner for his stupidity -- but mostly with herself, for being unable to remember, and judging from the wary looks the crew shot her, _for losing control_. Anger had descended on her mind a black, inconsolable rage, and she stalked down the hall unable to collect her thoughts enough to give voice to them, waiting for some direction to unleash her wells of wrath. She had never been so angry. She opened one of the hatchway doors and the metal handle warped beneath her grasp with a shrill shriek; it broke off with the fierce motion of her wrist twisting, and she flung it aside carelessly as she continued her sweltering, silent tirade.

Mina was so furious she was nearly blind. And she was worried.

She did not find Henry Jekyll in the room that Challenger directed her to, only the covers thrown back in an empty, slept-in bed. Challenger had not been able to tell her much, a little of himself and the strange Doctor and an island she could only remember the way she could remember foreign lands from pictures in childhood textbooks, a little more of meeting Nemo and coming to the Nautilus and how a number of them had gone after "Some Hyde person." The gaps in his story a pathetically bruised and swollen Sawyer had filled in.

She was afraid Henry might have done something to himself, and was furious at him for this final slight, this final gesture of utter spinelessness. It was a thought she did not express as she searched the rooms and the halls, curtly inquiring to the crew if they had seen the doctor, a question to which she received no affirmative answers. All the while she avoided looking out of the open panels and down into the impossible blue of the sea, wondering if Henry would dare to drown himself. Wondering if Hyde would let him.

And more than all, she did not need this grief. She had not, for the love of God, joined this group to be a nurse, much less the League's bloody _mother_--

She tripped. Just slightly, and she turned, opening her mouth to issue one of her ferociously curt, tight-lipped lambastes--

The daytime left her weak -- _human_, she often replaced with a cynical little simper. Her higher powers largely deserted her as the sun peeked over the horizon, leaving her dumb and blind and pitifully weak in comparison to her stronger self, and she would have not been able to see Skinner if not for the ferocity of the heat radiating from him.

He was a vague blotch of molten, hectic red to her extraordinary eyes, settled in an indistinct cloud at the base of the wall. Very suddenly she could hear a sound that permeated the whole hall, and it surprised her that she had not heard it before, so encompassed in her own thoughts -- it was a shuddering, railing, wholly unpleasant sound, like the sound of wet paper flapping in the wind. When it suddenly stopped, choked off but a sharp cough, she realized with a little groan that it was Skinner's breathing.

"Skinner?" She knelt and reached out, a sharp ache flaring behind her eyes at this new burden (and at the same time she was painfully aware of how far the invisible man had wandered from his room-- she had just left him! -- and the thought that he could have just as easily wandered below to where the sound and heat of the engines would have swallowed him up -- God, if that had happened they might have never found him; the mere thought of it made her feel sick.) Closer, she could smell it on him -- sickness, a rotten, yellow smell oozing from every one of his pores, the smell of old autumn leaves in wet spring, and for a minute she remembered back to when she had come across him laying in a heap of cinders and the ruined remains of his own flesh. Only that time he had been bathed in the pungent stench of death.

She found a patch of sweltering flesh and gently skated her hand over the surface of his skin, searching for some point of reference. She found the hook of his collar bone, and gently lay her hand on the blisteringly hot curve of what she assumed was his neck. "What are you doing here?" Despite her disposition, her voice had become quite gentle.

The indistinct red silhouette of Skinner's head tipped a little, turning towards her. She could not see his eyes but could feel his gaze -- it was burning.

"Was going somewhere." He mumbled, and the red mist of his head shook. "Forgot."

Under separate circumstances, she would have thought him drunk. There was the same anger of course, directed anew; Skinner, for not knowing the frailness of his own still-recovering body, and for playing with more dangerous, proverbial fires. But under the circumstances it was hard to feel anything for the invisible man but pity. "Come on, you shouldn't be up." She said, and took his arm. He shrugged her off impatiently, gestured down the hall.

"Sawyer's--"

"He's fine. You need to be resting--" She took his arm again and wrapped it around her shoulders, and pulled him to his feet.

Skinner fell into her grasp. "Eve." He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pressed his sweltering brow to the curve of her neck. Mina nearly threw him off of her, would have, had she not already known that he was out of his mind. "I was so afraid."

It startled her, being held that way, a way that not even Dorian had touched her but that of fierce entreaty, the way Jonathan's grasps had been at the last and worst, and it struck her how sad it was that she had never even imagined-- She gently touched Skinner's shoulders and pulled him away from herself.

"Let's get you to bed."

* * *

She had canvassed the upper decks of the ship twice before she thought to head below, to the domain of the crew where she had rarely wandered before, where the engines were kept, the equipment, the crew's quarters and the refrigeration rooms. In was in the last that she finally found him.

Curled up in the far corner of the steel refrigeration room like a beaten animal, bare foot, dressed only in the thin linen pyjamas specifically for the injured that, thought small, hung from his frame as though from a coat hanger, was the skeletal, bandaged body of Dr. Jekyll. Jekyll did not react when she opened the door or when she stepped into the cold room, her heels impacting the metal floor with a resounding clack.  
"Dr. Jekyll." He did not move until she was at his feet, and then he only raised his good hand above his head, as if in a gesture of mercy to an assailant.

"Let me alone, Mrs. Harker." His voice quavered. Around his arm she could see his haggard, pale face, his red-rimmed eyes. "Please."

She had expected to find him hysterical, suicidal, catatonic. At finding him at least apparently somewhat rational, all of her worry faded away.

"You're going to kill yourself, being down here." She snapped. He recoiled slightly and said nothing. With effort, Mina fought to swallow the sharpness of her tongue. She expelled her breath slowly, and reached for him, saying with forced calm, "Now, be rational and come back--"

She made to touch his arm and he grabbed her hand short. Though she could have broken the hold without a thought, the strength of the vice was surprising; that and his expression gave her pause: he looked her full in the face, his reddened eyes narrowed, his thin mouth curled in an ugly sneer. The expression made her withdraw.

"Let me alone." He snarled in a voice more Hyde than his own.

The expression cleared so quickly it might have been her imagination. Jekyll released her and sagged against the metal wall, as if the motions had exhausted him. "You don't understand." He dropped his head back to roll like a loose ball bearing against the wall; his dull eyes swam his wasted skull. A bitter, dry laugh escaped him. "You don't understand. Hyde escaped. He escaped without the potion. He--"

His countenance stilled, he straightened, and his eyes slid past her. "Shut up, Edward." He whispered. In a paroxysm of explosive violence, he cracked his head back into the metal wall behind him. "SHUT UP!" He shrieked, punctuating each cry with a bone-shattering impact. _"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"_

Mina dropped to her knees with a startled shout and grabbed to stop him, but there was no need. The last self-inflicted blow ended with a sickening crack and Jekyll slumped, dazed. Mina grasped his narrow wrists and held them while he looked at his knees, blinking dully, his lips parted and askew, his boding having caved to unconsciously nurse his plastered shoulder. As his expression began to clear she leaned in close to him, trying to catch his eyes.

"Listen to me, Dr. Jekyll." She said lowly. "I need your help. Skinner's very ill and I haven't the knowledge of medicine--"

Jekyll looked up sharply. "Skinner's relapsed?" There was a moment of clear indecision before his mouth quivered, and he broke her gaze. "No, no," he croaked softly, and he pulled himself from her grasp to cover his face once against with his hands. "I can't, Mrs. Harker." He whispered from behind the veil of his fingers as he bowed his head, his voice trembling. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. I'm not strong like you."

She gently pulled his hands away from his face, and slapped him.

It was in no way a girlish gesture: she backhanded him across the face, lightly enough so not to take his head off, but enough that a cut from her knuckle was spilling hot blood down the curve of his hollow cheek, which was rapidly filling with the color of a coming bruise. Jekyll's face had been whipped violently to the side and he turned back toward her slowly, his eyes wide. One hand came up to absently rest on the wounded cheek.

"You are weak because you choose to be." She stood without another word, and left him to his self-imposed exile.

* * *

Three months! *gasp* I apologize, my dear readers. I had to wrestle with this chapter for quite a while, and once it hit 8,000 words I realized I needed to split it in two. So, two chapters remaining rather than one, and I hope to have it up as soon as possible! This chapter was a bit Mina heavy, but I promise diversity will reappear very soon.

Thanks very much to all of my lovely reviewers, and those who have been equally patient with me. I always love hearing from you, and hope to have the next chapter up very shortly.


	21. Chapter 21: Pray for Us Now

Disclaimer: The graphic novel the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was created and is owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil. The film adaptation is owned by 20th Century Fox. No illegal infringement is intended.

* * *

Chapter 22: Pray for Us Now

* * *

Coughing, from the other side of the door. _Skinner?_ He was coughing like a man half-drowned. Like he had just run out of a fire.

Jekyll had to cram his fingers into his mouth to keep back the shrill giggles that threatened to burst from him like water through a matchstick dam. Instead, they caught in his chest and he shook with violent mirth, hot, hysterical tears peeling from his squeezed-shut eyes.

And then he was just weeping. _I've finally lost my mind, _he thought, _both parts. _And that nearly sent him into another fit, until he was staggering with containment, his teary eyes bulging in their sockets, teeth bared in a skeletal rictus, those screaming cackles hissing through his clenched teeth in soft, asthmatic-sounding wheezes. And distantly, he could hear the frame of his mind creaking, like a tree branch beneath the weight of snow--

"Help me, damn you!" He screamed. Only no doors in the lonely hall flew open, so it must not have been much more than a whisper --

Edward said nothing.

It passed, eventually; he could find no rest even in that great white abyss that was a far worse beast than Hyde could ever hope to be. And when it passed, it seemed to take everything from him: he was empty, right down to the hollows of his bones. And yet he felt so heavy; his chest full of lead. So heavy, as if he lay down he might never get up again--

There was a scream from the other side of the door, though it didn't startle him. It was not a scream of pain but a cri de coeur -- in a strange way, it was familiar; he would have thought it was his own had his throat not been so parched and dry . . . and had he enough life in him for a sound like that. It was a scream full of rage and despair, and Jekyll thought that maybe that was the white noise of his soul solidified. It was almost comforting.

_"Lo ucciderò!"_ The cry dissolved into a fit of railing coughs.

Jekyll reached out. The metal of the door was cool against his sweltering brow; his hand rested gently on the doorknob, not in the expectation of turning it, his fingers just dithering indecisively as he leaned against the door, listening, waiting . . . for what he wasn't sure. A sign, maybe, that he could turn around and wash his hands of this, of this damnable place and these damnable people. They were not _his_, after all. He was burdened enough already, wasn't he? Selfish to impose himself upon them, really; his great burdens were not theirs to shoulder. It would be better for them all, really, if . . .

And so he hesitated for no reason and for every reason, still not sure how he had come to be standing here and not still stagnating in that frigid refrigeration tomb, or, better yet, in a watery one--

And then, finally, Hyde spoke. _Takes quite a bit to make Italian sound that ugly._

"Delirium, from high fever or lack of oxygen to the brain." Jekyll replied quietly after a long minute, "Probably some sort of lung infection; the cough sounds productive--"

_Maybe the silly sot drank himself insensate and suffocated on his own bloody vomit._

"-- too sudden to be tuberculosis. Pneumonia? I didn't notice any symptoms before."

_Well, _Hyde harrumphed, as if that were the end of it. _He's dead anyways._

He was so very weary._  
_

Jekyll turned the doorknob. The door swung open without sound, and he stepped into the room.

* * *

The door leading to the helm was closed. It had never been closed before, if not exactly inviting: it was tacitly understood throughout the ship that the helm was Nemo's private domain. Amongst the crew the impression seemed to be that trespass was akin to ransacking Nemo's very quarters; Mina had known herself and the others in their motley syndicate to cross the threshold only in crisis. In this instance, Nemo had apparently deemed it prudent to remove any doubt from a possible encroacher's mind. Under separate circumstances, Mina might have been cowed by the simple finality of a closed door. Presently, her patience for such trivial things had long since dried up.

The wood of the helm's door, unlike the rest of the doors in the Nautilus, was carved ornately with idols Mina didn't recognize, ones she had been taught in her youth to regard only as barbaric. She allowed her fingers to trail over the avatars for a moment, collecting her thoughts and her voice (and calming her tongue) before she rapped smartly on the dark wood.

There was no answer.

"Captain, it is Mrs. Harker." Still no answer. Mina closed her eyes, pursed her lips. "Captain, I must give you fair warning that I have spent the last day tending to a boy too foolish to know not to stray to a foreign land alone, a man too stupid to realize that near-fatal burns lend a certain fragility to one's state, and a doctor too wrapped up in self-pity to help me in caring for either. I am at the end of my rope. This is a very lovely door. Do not make me break it."

"Come in, Mrs. Harker."

Nemo was not, as she expected, standing at the wheel; it was unmanned, rocking from side to side gently in abandon. Stepping further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind her, she finally spotted sign of the captain: a jeweled hand, resting on the arm of the captain's high-backed chair.

Mina approached cautiously, rounding from behind the desk for a better perspective. "Captain?"

Nemo was not pouring over maps or working with the esoteric tools of the sea; he was simply sitting, one hand on the armrest, his chin resting on his other fist. His head was turned towards the silver topography map but his gaze penetrated far beyond it, his dark eyes like dusted black glass. At her voice he blinked twice and his gaze cleared; he glanced in her direction.

"What is it that I can do for you, Mrs. Harker?" Nemo said airily, as if she were nothing more than a casual business acquaintance. Mina felt suddenly painfully out of place, her previous anger now a gauche overcoat.

"I've come to check on your wounds, Captain." She said quietly.

Nemo did not reply. With an apathetic motion that, to her, was terribly intimate, he reached up and began removing his turban.

Averting her eyes, Mina afforded him the privacy the act seemed to demand. She stepped forward to set Jekyll's small bag of medical supplies on the mariner's desk, toying with the latch and collecting a few items she thought she would need. After a few more minutes of distracted searching, when she gauged that Nemo had finished his task, she lifted her head.

Nemo sat placidly, his hands in his lap, gaze focused straight ahead, looking humorously like a man waiting for the barber. His black, curly hair was longer than she had expected. Immediately she saw the area requiring attention: a strip of plaster on his temple was rusty with old blood. Mina reached forward and smoothed the bloody hair back from his brow, then gently peeled the bandage away.

The gash was perhaps two inches in length. Despite Mina's careful actions it began bleeding on contact. Instinctively, she had kept her distance (it was not him, per se, just something she had learned over time, when being too close meant her head became drowned in the metronome of another's heartbeat) but presently she stepped forward in response to the sudden spill of red. She turned and retrieved a cloth from the desk and pressed it against the wound. "Hold this." Nemo's large, leathery hand came up to replace her own.

She pressed a cottonball to the mouth of Jekyll's small iodine bottle and flipped both upside down, until the cotton soaked through with the yellow fluid. Once the blood flow had tapered off Mina directed Nemo to pull the cloth away.

"This doesn't look too bad." She said, then admonished, "You're lucky it didn't become infected, leaving it untreated this long." She painted the wound with the yellow cottonball. Nemo did not flinch. "The scalp has been torn, but the bone underneath looks undamaged."

She wetted her hands, a needle and thread with carbolic acid, and leaned over him. With a well-practiced medical boldness she took his cheek in one hand and tipped his head towards her. The captain did not protest. With a quick plunge and a draw, black thread began to pull the wound closed, turning the gaping red maw into a grimace.

"Do you know how I came to be in the service of the English Government, Mrs. Harker?"

The question surprised her. "No, Captain." She could have added a great many things to that statement, concerning the rumours of his hatred of the crown, but she did not. Nemo, though, offered a knowing glance.

"Do you remember the Martian Invasion?"

This question surprised her even more, and she paused, considering. "Yes. That was . . . nearly two years ago." She resumed her needlework. "Shortly afterward some of the alien carcasses were sent to Dr Challenger for dissection and study."

Nemo nodded. After a pensive moment, in which Mina was not sure he would continue, he said, "Mr. Quatermain was not wrong when he called me a pirate." He chuckled. "Though not, perhaps, in the sense he intended. The Nautilus was fashioned from the pirate ships of old in that they were the first true democracies. The men aboard my ship have come from every corner of the world, every background: some have been princes, some have been common thieves. They have all rescinded their ties to their home countries and have become wanderers, like myself. Each member shares an equal amount of responsibility on the ship and to his shipmates, and, in turn, is rewarded with an equal share of the treasures we have encountered at the bottom of the sea. Though I am the creator of the Nautilus, if the crew were to object to my serving as Captain I would willingly step down and teach my replacement her ways. I am, really, an elected official." The captain let out a little, melancholy sigh. "None of my crew objected to my continued command. None decided that the next port should be their last on the Nautilus."

Nemo seemed to shake away that stray tangent, though his head did not move in her grasp. "It would be easy for me to say that I was urged by my crew to intervene on England's behalf in the face of that great invasion. I have a number of crewmen who were once Englishmen, and it would be dishonest of me to claim that my own heart is free of my homeland's heavy hand; for them, I would expect it is the same. In truth," he smiled faintly, "no matter my own history and personal devils, I could not bring myself to allow innocent people to suffer. The Nautilus managed to destroy a Martian craft from the Thames, before that strange weed clogged the water, and the Nautilus was as immobile as if she had been adrift on an ice shelf."

And Mina could see, in her mind's eye, London burning, London bleeding, the mainstay river that cut through the city dyed red by the clogging mass of that great weed. And it didn't take a great stretch of the imagination to see a fat little man in an expensive suit guiding a line of nervous soldiers across the spongy plant to where the Nautilus was netted by a web of red creeper.

"They threatened you?" Mina tied a knot in the stitches with a few quick motions of the needle.

Another strange smile passed over the captain's features. "No, Mrs Harker. They did not have to." He unconsciously pulled away, his weathered hand once again coming up to rest his knuckles against his lips. "How thoughtlessly I have volunteered the lives of all of those who sought out my ship for sanctuary and freedom. And how thoughtlessly I have allowed so many of them to die."

"You are good to them, Captain."

"Am I?" Cynicism made the quiet words heavy.

Mina, unperturbed by the drawback, leaned once more towards him in order to wash the remaining blood from the newly sewn wound, to press a piece of plaster against his temple. "Could it not be judged as ingratitude of their service to criticize the man they deemed worthy of their lives?"

Nemo did not respond, did not look in her direction for a full minute. When he did, an appreciative, almost artful humour had come into his eyes. "You are very clever, Mrs. Harker."

She smiled slightly, and, thinking that to be the end of things, turned to replace her materials in the bag. "Do you have any other injuries, Captain?"

"A few broken ribs." He said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I've wrapped them myself, no need to concern yourself."

"I can give you something for the pain--"

"How are the others?" He interrupted.

The reminder brought Mina's previous mood on like a black thundercloud, and she could feel her expression turn with it, her posture change. "Skinner is sick as a dog and getting worse by the hour, and I'm afraid Dr. Jekyll has finally lost whatever tenuous grasp he had on reality." She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "Thomas will be fine. Though hopefully that trouncing he took taught him a little bloody sense."

Nemo's eyebrows rose at the uncharacteristic profanity. "And how are_ you_, Mrs. Harker?"

"Honestly Captain, you know me well enough by now for it to just be Mina." She let out a blustery sigh. "And I am fine, thank you."

Two pills had sat in her left hand throughout the little speech; she stopped fingering them absently and offered them to him with a nurse's brisk impatience. "Take these."

Nemo took them, eyed them warily. "I have things to do tomorrow, Mrs. Harker."

"Well, I'm afraid they're going to have to wait." Her things packed and bag in hand, she started towards the door -- How long had she been away from them? How many things could have gone wrong by now? -- and hesitated in the doorway. Nemo had not risen, had not even turned to see her out.

"You're a good man, Captain." She called, finally, and closed the door quietly behind her.

* * *

_I don't even know what you're bothering for. _Hyde had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the motions of examining Skinner: listening to his wild heartbeat and labored breathing, trying to soothe his fevered insistence that Sawyer was on some mountainside, all the while feeling the young American's anxious eyes on his back. The familiar exercise had returned some . . . levelness . . . to the doctor. Now, as he backed out of the room with a despondent excuse (off to find Mina, to retrieve something from his room -- what he wasn't sure anymore, his head was aching so badly and the pain in his shoulder had become excruciating), Hyde's words were almost . . . gentle. _He's going to die, Henry._

Jekyll felt blood flood into his face. His teeth gritted. "You don't know that."

_Oh, don't insult your own intelligence. _Hyde snapped. _Even if he hadn't gone up like a Christmas yule log in Mongolia it would be a hard sell. But you know as well as I do that if that poor bastard doesn't already have bacteraemia he will before the night is out, and it'll be septicaemia by this time tomorrow. All you're doing is delaying the inevitable. If he's lucky his heart or lungs will give out first. But you know if his kidneys or liver go, he'll rot from the inside out, in agony. If you were a real saint you'd give him a bit of air in one of those syringes and end it quickly. I'm sure if Skinner still had the ability to form a cognitive thought, he'd thank you._

Jekyll raised a hand, balled it, and drove it into his plastered shoulder.

It wasn't a terribly strong blow -- clumsy and ineffectual, like a woman's weak little fist banging against her husband's barrel chest, or maybe a little child striking in petulant injustice at a parent. His fist was not a man's fist, it had no strength behind it. (The the fact that it was his own mind that was providing these snide taunts and not Hyde -- who seemed to have become quite enamoured with silence, as of late -- made Jekyll feel like weeping.)

There was conviction in the blow, however, and it had been hours since his last dose of morphine; his shoulder was a bed of smoldering coals. And the pain from that little blow was explosive.

His vision blacked out. He staggered, blind, and fell against the corridor wall, gasping and shaking and pouring sweat and there he stayed for an eternity while white hot agony poured from the pyre of that bullet wound. The world lost and regained dimension half a dozen times, and with each turn Jekyll thought, _This is the end of it_, and felt only relief.

His vision came back to him first; slowly, in shades of gray. The pain ebbed like a sea tide after a hurricane. Jekyll weakly fisted the sweat out his eyes with his good hand. His tongue flickered out over his dry lips and he chuckled, a dry, ugly sound.

"The day I take you as a moral authority is the day I borrow one of young Sawyer's guns and blow our collective brains out, you rotted appendix."

"Dr. Jekyll?" Rapid footfalls. Jekyll raised his bleary eyes, squinted.

"Gabriel?" No, that didn't make sense, Utterson was long dead by Hyde's own hand. But the thought was enough to shoot a bolt of fear even more jolting than the previous agony through his frame, because thought it was not Utterson, perhaps it was someone he had known before (before the League, before Hyde,_ Before_, when his greatest fear was that someone would learn he spent his Friday nights not reviewing scientific journals but fucking tarts in Whitechapel.) As the figure was half-running down the brightly lit corridor towards him neared, it seemed inconceivable in his pain and fear addled state that his name could be known any other way. And so Jekyll lamely tried to straighten, opening his mouth for a confused, trembling greeting, trying to smooth the bloody dressing gown he hadn't realized he was still wearing, even as these actions sent new squalls of pain up and down his half-dead arm.

"Let's have a look." This thin, elderly man, (who Jekyll was relieved to find he did not, in fact, recognize but for a shade of a shade, like half-glimpsed figure from someone else's family portrait, and that really didn't relieve him much at all), with no introduction, pushed aside the sleeve of Jekyll's robe and began plucking at the bandages. Jekyll watched helplessly, objections rising and quickly dying on his trembling lips. He would have laughed, had he been in a better humour, at how absurd the scene must look. "Good, you haven't reopened it." The elderly man muttered with no discernible inflection of actual relief. "You're very lucky. This is some of my best work."

"I'm sorry?" Jekyll managed finally, in a quavering, reedy voice. He cleared his throat and backed away half a step, good hand flying to cover the exposed black stitches that cut across his white shoulder and collar in an ugly railroad. "Have we met?"

"Ah yes, how rude of me." The man re-approached brusquely, his introduction flat as he brushed aside Jekyll's hand and began re-wrapping the wound. "Doctor Alphonse Moreau."

" . . . Moreau?" The name, too, was familiar.

Moreau's expression soured slightly at the quavering timbre, apparently mistaking Jekyll's discomfited state for something else. "I saved your life, Doctor. No need to thank me. Though, in light of who you are, I would understand if you weren't exactly eager to."

" . . . sorry?"

"Never mind. You should be resting, not mauling yourself whilst staggering about the halls. For the love of God, if you're going to kill yourself, at least wait until after you've healed properly. My work is impeccable, and I'll not be blamed if you were to expire of your own accord. Challenger would never let me hear the end of it." Moreau finished rebinding the wound, and began pulling Jekyll down the corridor, using none of the gentleness that Jekyll attempted to handle his own patients with. Jekyll allowed himself to be lead dumbly. "Now, lets get you back to the infirmary. That Harker is already harping at me because I've misplaced that young American. She would very likely pitch a fit if she saw you in your current condition. For the life of me I cannot understand what you people have against staying put--"

Jekyll stopped. His one good hand raised and fluttered by his head, as if it were telling him it had an important appointment to keep and he really must allow it off. "No, I'm sorry Doctor, I--" He stopped.

It quite suddenly occurred to Jekyll how odd it was that this Moreau fellow had happened to be in that particular corridor when, if he remember correctly, the infirmary was two hallways away from the guest bedrooms -- more notably, the quarters of the invisible thief, who was sequestered from the masses in an admittedly poorly-enforced quarantine. That mundane thought pushed through all the worries and fears of the past few hours like they were cobwebs. It wasn't important, really, most likely a mistake, yet Jekyll found himself blurting out, "Was there something you needed, Dr. Moreau?"

Moreau stopped. "Oh yes, I nearly forgot." His hand dropped from Jekyll's arm and he began fishing around in his waistcoat. "I was coming to give Challenger this, hopefully without actually having to encounter that insufferable cretin." Moreau produced a small bottle and openly admired it as the contained liquid caught the light. "A few years ago I worked for the French government engineering new viruses and bacterium. Incidentally, I happened to come across the research of a young man named Ernest Duchesne, who had made the discovery that certain types of moulds kill bacterium. Unfortunately, due to his youth, his research was not given the credit it deserved and he would later abandon the project. I, however, saw the incredible promise of this discovery, and continued his investigations."

Moreau turned, offered the small bottle to him. "This is the fruit of those labors. I developed it to help keep my patients alive post-operation. Their conditions are very delicate and with the number of open wounds my research demands, they are very susceptible to bacterial infections." He gave Jekyll a pointed look, nodded towards the hallway. "It may help that invisible fellow, from what little I've been able to discern about his condition. Another few days without it and he will be dead."

Jekyll took the small bottle warily. His short time with the league had made him suspicious of strange kings bearing unrequested gifts. "Why are you giving me this?"

"You all have saved my freedom, possibly my life. And I repay my debts." Moreau smiled thinly. "I suppose you should get back to it, then. Get some rest when you can, lots of fluids. You're a doctor, you know the bit."

Without further word, Moreau started back from whence he had come.

Jekyll watched him go, then turned his eyes to the small bottle in his hands. "Doctor Moreau?" He called. Moreau. It quite suddenly occurred to him where he knew the name from.

Moreau turned.

"Yes?"

"If this were created for your vivisection of animals, Dr. Moreau, it would be useless to humans."

Moreau offered a thin, enigmatic smile. "Lets not be coy, Dr. Jekyll."

He turned, and walked away.

* * *

First, let me just apologize for sucking so bad. Nearly a year since the last update! Egad. But do not fear, for I have returned. Unfortunately, my only excuses for this are, 1: I'm so lazy it's not even funny, and 2: I allowed the perfect to become the enemy of the good. Anyone other authors out there, I'm sure, will understand.

Only a few chapters left! On that note, some may notice that I have diverged from the comic's timeline. However, there are a few reasons for this: since this is the movie universe, the League was not created until 1900, two years after the Martian Invasion. Second, the Martian Invasion is the only plausible reason I can come up with for Nemo joining the League: how the British would have even found him, much less recruited him, otherwise, is a complete mystery to me.

Anyways, if you cans find it your hearts to forgive me, I still enjoy hearing from you all!

- Kurtz


End file.
